LAURELS
by Tatooine92
Summary: A collection of vignettes of the Nerevarine's adventures when she visits Cyrodiil and gets involved with the Oblivion Crisis. One-shots probably aren't chronological. IN-PROGRESS. R&R please!
1. Accidental Incarceration

Welcome to _Laurels_, a collection of one-shots/vignettes following the adventures of the Dunmer Nerevarine, Brynn Laurel, when she travels to Cyrodiil. Remember those in-game rumors about the Nerevarine going to Akavir? Not here! Bethesda won't get rid of Brynn so easily.

Quick background: Brynn grew up in poverty, moved to Cyrodiil after the death of her sister, and spent many years in prison before finally being sent on the adventures in the _Morrowind_ game. Now, she's six years older and more accepting of her destiny. Eager for adventure and tired of the quiet peace of Vvardenfell, Brynn traveled to Cyrodiil only to get wrapped up in the whole issue with Mehrunes Dagon.

Here follows her adventures. The one-shots might be chronological; other times, they might not. It's whatever comes to mind, whatever the almighty Plot Bunnies deign to make me write. Do enjoy! _-Tatooine92_

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The trouble with rumors was that they tended to be just that—rumors. The most ludicrous one that the imprisoned Dunmer woman had heard recently was the one that went, "I heard that the Nerevarine went to Akavir and hasn't been seen since!" She snorted at the very thought. How could she be in Akavir if she were in prison in the Imperial City? She hadn't meant to wind up here again, and the crime that had landed her in a cold, dank cell was theft. Though, she knew, it wasn't a crime at all because she hadn't stolen anything.

She had been browsing a rather crowded little shop in the Market District when another customer bumped into her, quite by accident. Since the other customer was of rather large girth, she had ended up being knocked into a rack of merchandise. No harm was done, though a few of the smaller items had fallen into her arms. When she moved to put them back, the shopkeeper saw her, made a few assumptions, and called the guards.

"It couldn't be more ironic," she sighed, tucking her knees into her chest there in her cell. "And if I hadn't spent all my money just getting here from Morrowind, I could've paid my fine and been off! The gods must hate me now."

"Oh, they probably do," echoed a voice from across the corridor. The Dunmer got up, crimson eyes narrowed as she walked to the cell door.

Across the way was a male Dunmer, also imprisoned. When he saw her, his eyes widened, and he leaned on the bars of the door.

"Well," he murmured. "I must surely have died, for it seems I could only be in the halls of Azura to gaze upon you, beautiful Dunmer maiden."

She sighed, folding her arms.

"Good sir," she replied, "I would appreciate it if you would cease leering at me."

"Then allow me to skip directly to loving you, my dear. One of the guards here, a friend of mine, owes me a favor or three. I... could ask him to transfer you over here... for a little fun..."

"No, thank you," she snorted, backing away from the door. "I have met and rejected men of higher quality than you, so I don't see why I should settle for a dirty tramp such as yourself."

"Oh, suit yourself," the Dunmer prisoner grumbled. "Just thought you should have a little enjoyment... before the end. Oh, you didn't think of that, did you? Didn't realize that you're going to die, did you? Oh, yes! You're going to die here; mark my words, you're going to _die_!"

The Dunmer woman hissed at him before she heard footsteps on the stairs leading down into the dungeon, and the other prisoner cackled.

"Ooh, do you hear that, my pet? They're coming for you already!"

The woman leaped back from the door when she saw guards—no, soldiers—coming down the steps. Yet she gasped when she saw another person with them, an elderly gentleman clad in a travel cloak despite the fact that she could see velvet and ermine peeking out from under the cloak's hem. Her heart raced as she realized that these soldiers weren't just soldiers, but that they were bodyguards. Eagerly, she waited for them to pass by her cell, but found to her surprise that their destination _was_ her cell. The woman in front glared in at her, frowning.

"Somebody tell me what she's doing in there! I ordered this cell off-limits!"

One or two of the other soldiers made a few weak excuses, but their leader just growled under her breath and unlocked the door. The Dunmer was ever so grateful when they came in, despite the fact that they threatened to kill her where she stood if she proved dangerous. It didn't stop her from approaching the cloaked gentleman, though, even with the blades that were suddenly leveled at her.

"Your Majesty," she breathed, respectfully sinking to one knee.

He paused, gazing at her, before a smile broke on his aged face, and something like mirth twinkled in his gray eyes. Gently, he touched her shoulder, raising her to her feet.

"Brynn Laurel," he replied, squeezing her shoulder. "How are you, child?"

"I could be better, sire," Brynn smiled, looking at him with grateful eyes.

The Emperor lifted a hand to calm his guards, the other hand still on Brynn's sackcloth-covered shoulder.

"It's all right," he said. "She's one of your kind."

"...sir?" asked the woman. The Emperor smiled.

"I believe she outranks you, captain. What rank did you have last, Brynn?"

"Operative," Brynn replied. "After Spymaster Cosades left Balmora, I became the ranking—"

"Shh." The Emperor gently quieted her. "There are some who serve me openly; I would not submit you to such danger.

"I did not think to see you here; I know I dreamed of you becoming a hero once again. I saw you battling an army unlike any that has ever set foot upon Tamriel. Yet I did not expect to find you in this cell, and I do know this: you are no criminal. Whatever charges are against you are undoubtedly wrong. I pardon you, my child, because I will need you.

"There are things," he went on, in a softer voice, "that I cannot trust anyone else with. Today is one such day. My Blades lead me hence, protecting me until my doom claims me."

Brynn jumped. Doom? No, not the Emperor; not her beloved patron!

"Doom? No, sire; you mustn't say things like that!"

"Hush, Brynn. My soul is content knowing you are here to aid me. For to no one else would I trust the task I will give you. Come, child; walk with your old Emperor a while. I will tell you what you need to know. Come, my dear; walk with me."

He extended his hand to her, and Brynn slipped to his side as the Blade captain opened a secret passageway in the wall of his cell. With surprise and awe, Brynn realized suddenly that this—her presence in this particular cell—must have been the gods' plan. Part of her dreaded knowing that she had again been chosen for some massive undertaking, but another part eagerly anticipated action and adventure. She just slipped her arm through the Emperor's, gently clasping his arm. He gave her a gentle, paternal smile as he tenderly patted her hand... and they started through the tunnels together.


	2. Forced Heroics

**LAURELS: Forced Heroics**

"Why me?" seemed like a good thought to have—and fitting. It only made sense that the Kvatch city watch would have recognized her when she rode up to what was left of the barricade. One moment, she'd been taken for some clueless, curious civilian, and the next, it was thus: "Hey, I think I know you! You're that Nerevarine, aren't you?" By now, Brynn Laurel felt almost as if she should've said no even though that technically would've been lying. If she had denied who she was, she probably wouldn't have gotten sent into that infernal portal looming outside the city. Then again, she probably would have turned foolhardy and volunteered.

Brynn never would've admitted it to anyone but herself, especially not aloud, but right now, standing in the midst of a plane of Oblivion itself, she had a serious case of terror. Every rumble of hell-thunder startled her, and she berated herself for being so fearful. Then again, she'd never actually been to Oblivion. Felt like it a few times, sure, but never _actually_. So she took off toward the main tower, carving through whatever enemies she came across—or vice versa.

"Of _course_ they'd send me," she grumbled to herself as she jogged across the barren, hellish terrain. "After all, I'm _the Nerevarine_. I'm a gods-damned _hero_, savior of Morrowind, and on and _on_. Next thing you know, they'll probably try to make me Empress of Tamriel. So of _course_ I'm _qualified_, no-never-mind to the fact that this is very literally Hell and I'm very literally afraid of it."

She just kept going, though, and as she drove her trusted, beloved Trueflame into the heart of a scamp that was trying to chase her down, she began to wish she'd stayed in Vvardenfell. She probably would still be doing little errands for the Fighters Guild or for House Redoran, but that was fine with her at the moment. Then again, when she'd decided to travel to Cyrodiil, Vvardenfell was safe. It had been quiet, peaceful, and she'd been bored. That was the entire reason she'd taken a boat to the mainland, then ridden by horseback the rest of the distance. So this was the price of her boredom: having to help rescue a city utterly destroyed by Daedra.

She tried not to focus on the Oblivion plane and all its horrors, instead forcing herself to take it in stride as though this were merely Red Mountain all over again and she had Keening clutched in her hand rather than Trueflame. Before she knew it, she was inside the Sigillum Sanguis, and she snatched the Sigil Stone before running for her life. After what felt like a white-out even though she was still conscious, she tumbled out of the dying gate right where she'd rushed in. Groaning, she struggled to her feet, checking herself for holes in her armor and, ultimately, in her body as the guards across the courtyard cheered her accomplishment. She just waved them toward the city as she shoved open the main gates and darted inside. Had to get to the chapel now that the coast was practically clear. She was glad that the guards were behind her; there were Daedra lurking all throughout the city. So while the guards handled the ones in the first area they came to, she took off on an opposite route, cleaning out the ones that were prepared to strike next. There was, after all, something she'd learned about herself years ago: she _hated_ it when enemies got between her and her target. And they were most definitely doing that right now. Annoying.

Along the way, she got a good look at what was left of the city, and her heart ached for the innocents lost. Over in one direction, under the rubble of a destroyed house, were a few citizens that just . . . hadn't made it. Just had been slaughtered in their own home. She turned away, toward the chapel, when something else caught her eye. Atop a pile of burning debris, about to be devoured by the angry flames, was a little girl's doll. Brynn lunged for the pile and snatched the doll away just as it nearly met an untimely demise. Gently, she dusted it off, straightening the little calico dress and apron and smoothing the head of yellow yarn hair. The doll's permanently embroidered smile and green button eyes grinned at her, almost with gratitude, as Brynn sighed and tenderly tucked the little doll into her belt, making it to the chapel as the guards did.

She didn't know what she was expecting to see inside the chapel, but she was surprised to see so many survivors. It was more than she'd been expecting, for starters, but she was also surprised to see how hopeless they were even though she knew she probably shouldn't be. Most were huddled under upturned pews, wrapped in blankets and illuminated by candles. Some were kneeling at the altar, begging their god to save them. Brynn still didn't know what to think of Imperial religion, especially since she'd grown up under the Tribunal and, more recently, spoke with the Daedric Princess Azura. But religion didn't exactly matter right now. She slowly raised a hand.

"Two questions," she said, getting a few of the survivors to look up. "One: who does this belong to?"

She pulled the doll from her belt and held it up, and there was an eager gasp from across the room as a little girl, no older than four or five, ran excitedly toward her. The little girl squealed "Molly, Molly!" as her little hands reached for the doll, and Brynn knelt down before her.

"Here you go, sweetheart," she murmured, smiling and pressing the doll into the little girl's arms. "Safe and sound."

The girl beamed at her and raced back across the chapel, crying "Look, Mama! Molly's safe! The nice elf lady saved her!" The little girl's mother glanced up at Brynn with exhausted and yet grateful eyes, and Brynn felt suddenly and totally humbled. Maybe it was the church affecting her; maybe it was that returning Molly to her owner's loving arms had brightened the day, even for a few people. She almost choked up but cleared her throat instead, maintaining some measure of self-control.

"All right, second question," she began again, rising to her feet and glancing around. "Which one of you is Martin?"

"He's over there," the little girl piped up, cuddling Molly in one arm and pointing with the other, "lookin' after my daddy and the other sick folks. He's nice. You're nice, too."

Brynn couldn't help smiling, and she saw that most of the survivors couldn't help it, either. She just murmured "Thank you" to her little friend, ruffling the head of curly hair as she passed to the back of the chapel, behind the altar and under the stained-glass window depicting Akatosh. Back here was where a makeshift hospital had been set up, with bedrolls for the injured and a small wooden bucket of water accompanied by a pewter dipper for the thirsty. Crouched beside a man that was wounded but not seriously was Brynn's target, and she exhaled quietly with relief when he turned to look at her.

"I heard you're looking for me," he said.

Brynn guessed that he was perhaps a few years older than she, but he looked so exhausted and frustrated that he seemed fifteen years older. Brynn felt suddenly embarrassed for bothering him, but she nodded. After all, her mission to find him was of the utmost importance, and she owed it to the late Emperor to do this.

"I am," she said. "I . . . need to speak with you."

"If you're looking for help on matters of religion," he replied, "then you're speaking to the wrong man. I'm having some doubts right now."

He rose and moved toward another of the wounded, there crouching down to check on the patient. Apparently he was the closest thing Kvatch had to a healer right now; Brynn bit her lip as she stood there in awkward silence.

"It's important," she said finally, suddenly realizing that she had no idea how to address a priest. Was it father? Or was it brother? She never good remember. At least with the former Tribunal and with the Daedra, it was always "lord" or "lady." He glanced over his shoulder at her, snorting softly.

"I'm sure it is. All right, speak. I'm listening."

But by that point, Brynn had gotten a good look at the survivors as the guards arrived to shuttle them all down to the encampment on the road. All of them were exhausted and probably hungry; some were starting to become ill; these few were injured. Rather abruptly, her mission didn't seem so important anymore, even if it were. These people, this town . . . that was the immediate problem. She just sank down onto a still-upright bench and exhaled heavily.

"It can wait."


	3. Overworking

**LAURELS: Overworking**

It had been a decidedly long day. For the Dunmer woman tiredly climbing the steps of Cloud Ruler Temple as dusk faded to blackness, boots scuffling along on the stone, sword scabbard dragging at her side, it had been an even longer one, not to mention frustratingly unproductive. Even her horse, black as the approaching night, felt the exhaustion of the day as her hooves clip-clopped dully up the stairs, long, lithe legs hardly able to pull her fifteen-hundred pounds of horseflesh up to the top. Brynn Laurel sighed as she finally reached the top of the steps, giving her horse's reins a little tug so the animal would follow her and make the last step up. The two of them shuffled for the stables; the night watch gave them a sympathetic smile as he lit a lantern by the stable door as Brynn and her horse, Ebonheart, passed.

It seemed as if both horse and rider would fall down before they were able to get to bed, but Brynn led Ebonheart into the security of the stable and began to unsaddle the horse. Carefully, she tossed a stirrup across the saddle, loosening the girth buckle and slipping the strap free. Ebonheart seemed to be relieved that the pressure of the saddle was gone, for she nickered softly and pushed her velvety nose into Brynn's chest. Brynn smiled faintly and rubbed the mare's nose, reaching up and stroking her forehead and the little white star there before she tugged the saddle off and laid it to rest on a nearby saddletree. Next came the bridle; Ebonheart was all too eager to relinquish it to Brynn's hands, practically spitting out the iron bit and shaking herself free of the browband. Brynn just wiped off the bit and hung the bridle on a hook, mumbling to herself that she would oil it in the morning. Ebonheart snorted, pawing in agreement at the straw on the stable floor; Brynn smiled wanly as she ran a brush over the mare's dark coat, removing dirt and dust before she lightly scraped at each hoof with a hoofpick. Only when the grooming was finished did she fill the feed bin and water trough, pat Ebonheart on the rump, and slip outside the stable, locking the door behind herself as she headed up to the Temple hall.

In the large sack on her shoulder that Ebonheart usually carried, she could feel the awkward shape of the Daedric artifact she had been sent to find. That was the only good thing to the day: the fact that she had been to out to one of the shrines and had jumped enough hoops to win an artifact. The rest of it had been absolutely awful; bandits had constantly attacked her, wild animals had tried to chew on Ebonheart's forelegs, goblins and imps had somehow always managed to find her as she'd ridden through the countryside… It just always ended up wrong. The only good point was that artifact in her pack, which she now carried up to the main hall to give to Martin. She thought he'd still be awake and poring over his books since it wasn't _that_ late; she'd just toss the artifact onto his table and then shuffle off to bed. She was exhausted; he wouldn't be able to hold that against her. So Brynn shoved open the door to the hall and stepped inside, carrying her sack loosely in one hand.

In the light from the fire in the fireplace, she could see Martin right where she'd left him: at his desk, surrounded by books and alchemical equipment. But when she walked closer, she saw him slumped over, head on his folded arms, and it occurred suddenly to her that she wasn't the only one to have worked too hard that day. He was sound asleep, practically face down in a book of Daedra, and his hair was all askew, strands tossed randomly about in a way that made it obvious that he'd just worked until he'd fallen over. A little china cup was at his elbow, still full to the rim with dark tea that had gone cold, and there was a small plate of cookies nearby; only one had a single bite taken out of it.

Brynn sighed as she walked over, pulling the artifact out of her sack and laying it on the table, settling herself down on the bench beside him. She wasn't planning on waking him, not if he'd fallen asleep after tirelessly spending so much time with all those books, trying to solve all the Empire's Daedra problems before there was too much to worry about. Reaching over, Brynn tenderly brushed some strands of dark hair from his eyes, gazing at him. He looked so peaceful and at ease when he was asleep, as if there wasn't anything to worry about and never would be. He didn't even stir when Brynn touched him; he was so deeply asleep that even her hand gently rubbing his back didn't wake him. In a way, Brynn felt sorry for him. He hadn't expected any of this to happen, yet here he was, sole heir to the throne as everyone constantly reminded him; he had to be overwhelmed by all the responsibility. Brynn could remember times she'd felt like that, times she hated being the one all the work and world's duties rested upon, times she wanted to just hang the whole thing and go back to being a nobody. She could identify with Martin, then; one moment, he'd been just an ordinary priest in an ordinary chapel, and the next… he was being told that he was the Emperor's last son and the only one in line for the throne. Brynn sighed and stroked his hair as he slept soundly on.

"You're just not going to get a break, are you?"


	4. But It Looked So Harmless

**A/N: **Well, this collection seems to be going over well! I appreciate it, y'all. =D So now we have a one-shot featuring that horrid book, the _Mysterium Xarxes_. Please tell me I'm not alone in liking the way Martin says the title...

* * *

**LAURELS: "But it looked so harmless..."**

Brynn frowned at the book in her hand, then back at the door to the Lake Arrius Caverns.

"All this," she murmured, "for a_ book_? Must be more of a book than I'd thought."

She'd barely made it out of the caverns with her life; those Dagon cultists certainly got bloodthirsty when provoked. And she didn't have the Amulet of Kings as she'd intended. Instead, she had a book, the_ Mysterium Xarxes_. She had no doubts that it was written by Mehrunes Dagon; that was why she tucked it neatly into her saddlebags, mounted Ebonheart, and started off across the mountains. After a few hours of traversing the almost-forgotten mountain trails in the Jeralls, she found herself on the main road just outside Bruma. The rest of the ride up to Cloud Ruler Temple didn't take very long; she was more than glad to see the old fortress, for the day was long and she'd collected more than her fair share of bumps, bruises, and sword cuts. Ebonheart trotted up the steps to the courtyard of the temple, snorting when she reached the top. Brynn just slid out of the saddle, handed her horse to the stable boy, and started off for the interior of the Temple. Jauffre met her on the way, and they exchanged a few words; he was upset that the Amulet hadn't been recovered, and Brynn sympathized with him before she dug out the_ Xarxes_ to show him.

"Incredible," the old Blade murmured, looking it over. "Yes, Martin will want to see this. I believe he's in the great hall, probably reading again. Do take it to him."

Brynn nodded and hurried off, holding the book tightly in one hand while she shoved open the door with the other. True to Jauffre's word, Martin was sequestered at a table in the great hall, surrounded by books. Brynn recognized a few of the titles: _The Amulet of Kings, The Trials of St. Alessia, The Book of Daedra, Modern Heretics_.

"Someone's been doing his research," she called out as she walked in. Martin glanced up and spared a quick smile.

"Well, don't tell the Blades," he said, lowering his voice when she approached, "but there's very little else to do here."

"I hear you," Brynn sighed, sliding onto the bench across the table from him.

She paused to collect herself before meeting Martin's gaze, finding him already studying her. His brows were furrowed as he leaned forward, hands folded on the tabletop.

"You look like you've bad news," he told her. "You... didn't find the Amulet, did you?"

"No, Martin; I'm sorry," Brynn replied. "I did everything I could. But I do have this for you."

She lifted the_ Xarxes _and held it out to him. Martin seemed to recognize it and almost instantly recoiled when he saw it, eyes widening as he pushed it away, startling Brynn.

"By the Nine! Brynn, let go of that! Such a thing is dangerous even to handle!"

Brynn hurled the book onto the table as if it were a venomous snake, promptly rubbing her hands on her greaves.

"It's just a book!" she cried. Martin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, I know it's 'just a book,'" he replied tightly. "But this... Do you know what it is?"

"Y—yes, I—"

"Then let me see your hands."

"Why?"

"Just let me see them!"

Brynn held her hands out, palms up, noticing that she was shaking as she did so. It was then that she realized that she was terrified, not by Martin's sudden exclamation but by the evil she had somehow neglected to see and understand. Tears welled in her eyes as Martin took her hands in his, studying them, turning them over.

"What're you looking for?" she managed to choke out. He looked up at her, total seriousness in his eyes.

"Any signs that the book might've corrupted you so soon," he answered somberly. "It is said..." He sighed. "It is said that those who have been affected by the power of the _Mysterium Xarxes_ bear the mark of Dagon on the skin that has contacted the book, even the cover."

Brynn bit her lip; a tear rolled, unbidden, down her cheek, and she felt like a fool for crying despite the fact that Daedric power tended to be dark power. Swallowing hard, she looked at her hands. There were no marks; they seemed as if they were burned, though. She hadn't felt them being burned when she had carried the_ Xarxes_. After a moment, Martin sighed, patted her hands and gave them a squeeze, and gently set them down on the table.

"I think you dropped it just in time," he said. "The burn marks are temporary, though they are the manifestation of the dark power on your body. But look; even now they fade."

He turned Brynn's palms upward; she peered closer to see that the burns were fading back into healthy skin, yet she started shaking harder. She had come_ terribly_ close to being corrupted by the power in that book.

"You're a very lucky elf," Martin told her with a relieved sigh. "I think you escaped by fortune alone."

He looked up, saw her tears and her tremors, and reached across the table to grab her shoulder.

"Hey, now," he soothed. "You're all right. You're not about to be possessed. You're safe."

"I—I know," she sputtered. "I just—"

"Shh, Brynn. You did right to bring it to me. Just... oh, don't touch it again. I know ways to protect myself; I'm not sure you do."

Sighing thinly, he reached up and brushed away her tears with his thumb, using his other hand to squeeze her shoulder. Brynn took a few deep breaths, blinking rapidly and inhaling slowly to try to calm herself. After a moment, she nodded, managing a smile.

"I'm all right," she said. "I'm all right."

Yet there was still one thing that bothered her. If she felt this disturbed after a mere encounter with the book, then what would she have felt like had she kept it, fondled it, and actually_ studied _it?


	5. Getaway

**LAURELS: Getaway**

If there were only one thing Brynn could have been grateful for at Cloud Ruler Temple, it would have been the fact that there were hot, fresh meals available on a regular basis. Eating dried goods was now reserved for traveling, and it didn't hurt that there was quite a bit of good service once Jauffre had informed the Blades that Brynn outranked everyone but him. Still, the attention that Brynn received because of her rank in the Blades made her slightly… uncomfortable at times—so she still ended up doing things for herself.

Those hot suppers would have been more pleasant if she had a little decent dinnertime conversation, though. She and Martin generally dined around the same time—late in the evening—but they rarely spoke to each other; he always had his nose stuck in some book, and Brynn found herself rather annoyed by the lack of conversation. So, one evening, right as he flipped the page... she reached over the table and over the top of the book, pressing on the inside of the pages and pulling down. Martin looked decidedly surprised as he glanced up, and Brynn sighed.

"You've been reading that same book for two days now," she informed him. "It can't be _that_ interesting."

"Well, actually—" he began, only to realize she was being mildly facetious. He sighed. "What am I supposed to do, Brynn? Ride gallantly out and slam shut Oblivion gates like you do? Because, quite honestly, you make it look so simple that I imagine a child could do it."

"Save your jokes, Martin," Brynn replied with a sigh. "I was actually thinking more along the lines of _relaxing_, thank you very much. Whatever's in these books you read, it takes up all your time. What is it, research on Daedra? On the Empire? On what being Emperor entails? Whatever it is, it's taken you over. You rise early and go to sleep late. I haven't seen you eat, and you smiled more in Kvatch, for gods' sake. I think you need…"

"Brynn, don't say it..."

"...a holiday."

She said it. Martin sighed, closing his eyes as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was the _last_ person who should be taking holidays; surely she knew that. But he slipped a piece of scrap paper into the book and closed the cover, setting it off to the side.

"There. I'm not reading."

And he promptly picked up his fork and stabbed it into his dinner, which was now almost cold. He shoved the bite of food into his mouth, making exaggerated chewing motions.

"And now I'm eating."

A corner of Brynn's mouth quirked up in a smirk, and she folded her arms on the table, shaking her head.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get out of going on holiday with me."

"Oh, now, why would I do that?" He hoped he pulled off a convincing look of innocence.

"Wonderful!" Brynn smiled. "Then it's settled. We'll go out first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll take a picnic lunch down to the first lake we can find. I know a perfect one—it's at the base of a little waterfall. Very secluded and relaxing. You'll like it."

Martin swallowed a groan along with his dinner. He had things to be doing, and she _definitely_ had things to do. Taking a day trip down to some lake somewhere wasn't exactly an appropriate way of spending time in such dangerous days as these. His inner pessimist informed him sullenly that an Oblivion gate would probably burst open right as they arrived at the lake, and he sighed. They had better things to be doing—such as figuring out how to open a portal to Camoran's paradise. Picnicking just didn't accomplish that, and Martin felt his face melt into a frown. And he should have expected Brynn to notice... for she did.

"It's only a few hours, Martin," she murmured. "You've been working yourself too hard. And you yourself mentioned how terrible the corrupting power of the _Xarxes_ can be. Yet here you are, day after day, preferring to stay hunched over Its pages rather than go elsewhere and rest your mind.

"Listen to me," she went on, reaching across the table for his hand. "It isn't worth it. Not right now. What good is it to save the world and lose yourself? The last thing any of us needs is an Emperor corrupted by Daedric power.

"You want to use the _Xarxes_ to eventually accomplish good, but It knows this. It has a mind of Its own, almost. I saw how It behaved within Camoran's grasp. It is as if It is a fragment of Dagon's very nature, twisting and corrupting wherever It goes. And I feel that, had I not brought It back here immediately, I would have succumbed to It, as well."

Martin was speechless. She had never mentioned this! And here he had thought she was almost a demigoddess, able to withstand all evil and able to refuse the terrible corruption that was practically unavoidable within Daedric practices. After all, she had spoken of her dedication to the Lady Azura; then again, the Lady of Dawn and Dusk was considered one of the few "good" Daedra, one who seemed to care for her followers rather than wish them harm.

"Brynn, I..." Martin stammered. "I—I hadn't known this. You should have told me; I could have helped you!"

"Helped me what? Resist Its powers? What would I have done with such a resistance? Kept the _Xarxes_ longer in my possession? That never would have ended well. We must find a way to open that portal, then destroy that book. Only... we shan't do it right now. You're going to have a holiday. We're both going to have a holiday."

It wasn't until after she had gotten up and bid him goodnight that he realized that this excursion was as much for her benefit as it was for his. Dragging him off on a picnic was her way of requesting rest for herself. Martin sighed as he rose from the table, collecting his book. He almost flipped it open again but hesitated, instead carrying it back to his makeshift study area before heading for the west wing of the temple.

When he opened the door, he could see Brynn coiled on the floor in a corner, her back to the wall. She never slept with her back vulnerable, he noticed. And yet... There she was, the second-highest-ranking Blade in the temple, and she slept on a mat on the _floor_. The other Blades shared low-standing bunks, yet Brynn only had a bedroll? That was hardly fair, especially with everything she'd done that was good and heroic. Martin even felt a little selfish because of the fine double bed he slept in—the bed with its fluffy feather pillows, thick down blankets, and soft mattress.

The idea he had then was so suddenly selfless that it surprised him. He couldn't believe he was actually thinking about trading beds with her. No, that wouldn't work; she'd yell at him for sleeping on the floor. Oh, what did it matter? Even if she got upset, she probably would be unable to be grouchy for long. Besides, she was the one that was gone for days at a time, riding the length and breadth of Cyrodiil. One night in a better bed wouldn't hurt anything.

So he crept quietly to her and looked her over. She had shed her armor and was sleeping in a pair of simple trousers, an oversized tunic, and bare feet. Her sword was under her pillow, and her armor was in a neat pile nearby. Without any armor on her body, it would be easy to lift her and not make noise. Martin gently slipped his arms under her and pulled her away from the bedroll, lifting her off the ground as he rose to carry her upstairs. She barely even moved when he touched her; if she were that exhausted, no wonder she wanted a holiday. But she didn't seem averse to being carried elsewhere, for she nestled into his arms and didn't make a sound. Martin couldn't help but smile to himself.

The Blade standing guard at the door was nodding off; apparently, it was the end of his shift and he was waiting for his relief. Martin was able to sneak past him and into his room, shutting the sliding screen door behind him. Carefully, he laid Brynn down on the bed before tugging back the blankets; it took a little more work to get her tucked under them, but he managed. He stifled a laugh with the back of his hand when he saw how she sank almost instantly into the soft mattress, disappearing under the covers so that he saw little more of her than her ebony hair. Not once did she move, yet she seemed to subconsciously adjust to the comfort of a real bed, for her breathing deepened as she slept more soundly. Martin sighed softly as he went to a chest in the corner, pulling out a few spare blankets and a pillow to make a temporary bed on the floor for himself. He almost wondered if Brynn snored, and he lay awake for a few minutes to find out if she did. Yet when no sounds came from the bed, he rolled onto his side and gazed at the wall until he drifted off.

* * *

The next morning, Martin awoke before Brynn did. It was strange; he was awake at his usual time, and he could remember countless other times when she had been gone before he awoke, yet she was still curled beneath the blankets, sound asleep. He just got up and quietly dressed before picking up the blankets off the floor. It was as he tucked them back into the chest that he heard Brynn shift and stir under the covers, and he turned in time to see her scarlet eyes blinking open. He smiled, though he noticed that she looked confused as she sat up, looking around.

"Good morning," he said to her. She blinked at him.

"What happened?"

"Nothing scandalous," Martin assured her. "I thought you needed a real bed for once. Did you sleep well?"

Brynn nodded before she rolled out from under the blankets, her bare feet silent on the cold, wooden floor. Still looking mildly dazed, she brushed a hand through her hair and glanced around the room for a few moments.

"I need to dress," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Was going picnicking..."

Martin smothered a smile with the back of his hand as she shuffled numbly from the room; she didn't even acknowledge the on-duty Blade by the door when he greeted her with a cheery "Mornin', ma'am!" She just shuffled on past, disappearing from Martin's sight before too long. Martin sighed as he watched her go, shaking his head before turning to pull the bed together.

It was about ten minutes later that he heard footsteps in the hall. They were too quiet to have been Blades' boots, so Martin thought that perhaps Jauffre was coming to see how he was. He turned to greet the Grandmaster, pausing in surprise when he saw that his visitor was _not_ Jauffre. It was, in fact... Brynn. But, at first glance, he had barely recognized her. She didn't look like she normally did; usually, it was difficult to tell, if she were armed, on horseback, and far away, if she were male or female. But today... there could be no question. Martin checked the slackness in his jaw when she walked into the room, but his gaze continued to rove over her.

She was clad in a sapphire blue robe—was that silk?—that was fitted to her figure, with a golden belt and some light embroidery down the front and around the long sleeves' cuffs. The same embroidery chased around the bottom hem, and also around the collar. Yet it wasn't until she walked more fully into the room that Martin realized that she wore not a dress but a long tunic, one that stretched past her knees, with black riding breeches and boots of supple, dark brown leather beneath. The tunic was split up the front and back, for horseback riding, and Martin thought he could see a flash of metal from underneath the wrist-length sleeves; chain mail? So even on "off days," Brynn didn't go unprepared. Martin wondered what it must feel like to be unable to travel anywhere without a sword and some form of armor. And yet, at the same time, he realized how... how _beautiful_ Brynn was, even in riding garments.

Her long black hair was styled for practicality and not fashion; on each side of her face were three long, thin braids that had been braided to form a much longer one. These two braids had then been pulled to the back of her head and fastened, keeping her hair from her eyes while still allowing it to remain loose. How she managed to look so glorious, Martin had no idea. Maybe it was the decent night's sleep she had gotten. But then he heard her laugh.

"What's wrong, Martin?" she asked. "Didn't you ever see me in something besides armor?"

"No," he answered, for he couldn't think of any better response. "I expected you to wear your Blades armor."

"This is my holiday, Martin," Brynn chided, scarlet eyes twinkling teasingly. "I don't intend to get into battles. Now, I asked the quartermaster to pack us a lunch, so that's done. It isn't hard to get horses to travel on; I have Ebonheart and you have your pick of the Blades' stables. As for permission to get you out of here, Jauffre is a reasonable enough man that I didn't have to attempt bribery. So! Are you ready?"

She looked eager to enjoy a day in the country, and Martin swallowed. She looked so radiant, even in riding gear with chain mail beneath, that he felt underdressed in his simple priest robe. So he cleared his throat, glancing to his oaken wardrobe.

"Ahh... I thought I'd wear something else. Just need to change, then I'll be with you."

Brynn nodded pleasantly and left him alone again, shutting the door behind her. Martin stood staring after her for a moment before he practically dove into the wardrobe, rifling through it in search of something a little less... dull... to wear. After all, the same gray wool every day tended to be annoying after a while.

He found a set of men's travel attire, one that Jauffre had given him but he had never used, much like Brynn's, but far more masculine—far more kingly. There wasn't as much delicate embroidery on this set; where there was fancy needlework, it was bold, noticeable. The thick, burgundy tunic wasn't quite as long, either, though it still reached past his knees, and the sleeves were shorter, reaching to his elbows rather than his wrists. Martin gladly yanked off his robes, tossing them onto the bed as he went for his new attire. It, too, had chain mail to be worn beneath it, and trousers, and boots. These went on first, then the tunic. In spite of two layers of clothing already (which would be useful in the chilly temperatures of the Jerall Mountains), Martin felt somewhat naked. If he could find a coat... ah! Hanging inside the wardrobe was also a sleeveless leather surcoat, belted at the waist, which he tugged on and belted before hurrying to find Brynn.

It was somewhat odd to be in these new clothes; for one thing, the boots were heavier than his usual shoes, and for another, Brynn's garments at least had some wear to them. The leather surcoat was still stiff, unused, and the tunic unmarred by usage. As Martin passed a few Blades, he knew they were eyeing him strangely; they had never seen him in anything but his old gray robes. Well, time for something new. Time to break in a new outfit that might, perhaps, be comfortable, even though Martin hadn't _ever_ worn chain mail in his life.

He found Brynn at the stables, fondling her mare, Ebonheart. The mare's coat, dark as a night sky, gleamed in the morning light, so well had she been groomed. Even from across the courtyard, Martin could hear Brynn murmuring adoring words to her loyal horse, words that praised Ebonheart's strength and courage throughout these long, dark days. Martin again felt misplaced; he had not had a horse that he considered a friend. Compared to Brynn, he was rather inexperienced. Then again, he hadn't been allowed to wander very far from Cloud Ruler; Jauffre would never forgive himself if the Mythic Dawn managed to slay Martin, after all.

Martin sighed and hurried on to the stables; this was not a day for foul thoughts of death and doom. Instead, he mustered a smile, poking his head around the corner.

"Ready," he announced, slipping into the stables to choose and saddle a horse.

He could feel Brynn's eyes on him as he chose a strong, surefooted bay stallion, and he almost blushed with embarrassment. She must think him an idiot, he thought to himself, for changing into such an elaborate outfit for a mere ride through the mountains. It didn't _look_ elaborate, but compared to his usual choice of clothing... it was finer than the Countess Carvain's wardrobe.

"Well, well," Brynn murmured. "I think there's a bit of a rebel in you after all, Martin, dressing the part of the adventurer. It's a change. I like it."

Something about her tone made a bead of sweat chase down his neck; or maybe it was the fur-lined collar of the thick cloak he'd swiped from Jauffre on the way out the door.

"We're probably going to be accused of each copying the other's dress, though," he managed to joke as he turned, saddle in hand. He had noticed, after all, that she too wore a leather surcoat over her tunic, though hers had longer sleeves and was brown and scuffed. It looked far more comfortable than his felt. "I wouldn't be surprised at all if that happened."

"I would," Brynn retorted with a smirk. "I've had this outfit longer than you've had yours, I'll warrant, and it's traveled from Morrowind to here and will go back with me whenever I do finally go home."

Martin felt a pang as he realized just how serious she was about returning to Morrowind. She wasn't happy here, was she? He wondered if she'd ever truly be content unless she lived on lonesome Vvardenfell. What would he have to do to make her want to stay? Would he have to—

Oh, no. No, no, he wouldn't go there. He'd never allow his thoughts to go that route. It was... it was inappropriate and tactless, and those were just the first two adjectives that came to his mind. Instead, he turned toward his chosen steed and saddled him, trying to take long enough to do that task so that when he finally turned, he wouldn't seem flustered.

At long last, he led the stallion from the stables, as Brynn led out Ebonheart, and they walked silently side by side back toward the courtyard. The only sounds were the howling of the wind in the mountains, the clash of steel on steel of two Blades sparring, and the hollow _clip-clop_ of their horses' hooves on the stonework. When they reached the head of the stairs, Brynn flung the reins across the saddle and pulled herself up, careful to swing her leg over the picnic basket tied to the back of Ebonheart's saddle. Her crimson wool cloak spread out behind her, hiding the basket and most of Ebonheart's rump, but Martin noticed something interesting: she carried her sword beneath her cloak.

"Should I have brought one?" he questioned. Brynn looked at him and smirked, then reached down to pull something from the right side of the saddle—the side Martin had never seen.

"Here," she said, handing down a long, heavy claymore. "We may be going on holiday, but one can never be too careful. I hope we shall not need them, but if we do, I do hope you know your swordplay, Highness."

"How many times have I told you, Brynn," Martin glowered, swinging into the bay's saddle, "_not_ to call me 'Highness'?"

"Only about fifty."

"Ah," Martin retorted, "no wonder you haven't learned."

Brynn shot him a wicked grin as she tapped her heels into Ebonheart's sides, and the mare snorted once before walking lightly down Cloud Ruler's steps. Her steps were sure and steady as she inched her way down the stairs, even as Martin wondered if it would've been wiser to dismount and lead the horses down. But before he knew it, Brynn had reached the bottom and was waiting for him, so he followed her. He couldn't help but exhale with relief when his mount's hooves were on stable ground, and Brynn grinned at him.

"Well," she said, gazing across the mountains. "Shall we have our adventure?"

She didn't wait for Martin's answer before turning onto the road and spurring Ebonheart into a swift canter. Martin shook his head at her exuberance before urging his horse on and following.

* * *

"This is nicer than I'd expected," Martin had to confess. Brynn grinned at him from nearby.

"See? It's as I keep trying to tell you, Martin: sometimes, you're just too much of a pessimist for your own good."

The place Brynn had chosen for the picnic was more beautiful than anything Martin had recently seen. It was a little lake (pond, rather, if the water hadn't been so clear and clean) fed by a small waterfall that gurgled and babbled like a small child as the water splashed over the rocks. This lake was sequestered within a grove of pines that filled the air with their pungent spice, and right beside the lake was a huge old oak tree whose roots tumbled down the bank and into the water. It was under this tree that they had stopped, unsaddling the horses for the afternoon and hobbling them so that they had enough leg room to graze but not enough to run away.

By Bruma standards, it was a warm day; snow was melting in the pines, but it was still chilly. It just wasn't cold enough to require the heavy cloaks that both Brynn and Martin wore. As a result, they spread them on the grass as Brynn unpacked the picnic lunch. Martin found himself standing by the lake and gazing up; from where he stood, he could see the blue sky through the tops of the evergreens. He could see clouds, though they weren't snow clouds; they were fluffy white things that occasionally dotted the sky.

"You're relaxing," said Brynn suddenly, behind him.

Martin turned, hands clasped behind his back as he looked over at her. She still looked radiant even if some wisps of loose hair now framed her face, having been blown free from riding up nearly abandoned mountain trails. Martin smiled, shrugging slightly as his eyes roved across the pristine landscape. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he thought that he could see the top of White Gold Tower even from this distance.

"It must be the atmosphere," he replied, "or perhaps the present company."

"Flatterer," Brynn muttered, but Martin hid a smile. He knew she was pleased.

"It's an improvement over Cloud Ruler's great hall," he confessed. "Here, the air is crisper. Fresher. It's as if this is the one corner of the world that has lain untouched for millennia."

"It probably is."

"How did you find it?"

Brynn sat back on her heels, looking thoughtful. She exhaled, and a faint cloud of vapor puffed from her nostrils, hanging in the air a mere moment before dissipating.

"I wasn't looking for it, that's certain," she said. "I was on my way back to Bruma one night, but it got dark before I could return. So I just made camp in the first place I couldn't hear wolves howling, and in the morning, I saw where I was. And I was here—right under this tree, actually. It was dawn, so you can imagine how it looked in the sunrise."

Martin _did_ imagine, and he nodded slowly as his mind formed a mental image of sunlight glinting on water, each ripple shimmering as light streamed through the pine boughs.

"So you kept its location to yourself."

"I'm allowed one ounce of selfishness, am I not?" Brynn asked him. "I marked it on my map and made it my secret place. It makes a lovely campsite."

"And picnic ground," Martin added, walking over to the tree and settling, cross-legged, onto his cloak. "What have you brought?"

"I don't know," Brynn chuckled. "I didn't look once I got the basket, and everything's wrapped up, so it's still a surprise."

It was, thankfully, a pleasant surprise. There was bread and wine, and cold cuts packed in snow to keep them cool; there was also some cheese and fruit, such as apples and pears imported to Bruma from warmer parts of Cyrodiil. It may have been a simple lunch, but it was both delicious and filling, and that was what counted. But even better than the picnic lunch was the conversation, because none of it, to Martin's relief, migrated to the Oblivion invasion. The topics were much more pleasant, ranging from discussions of pleasant childhood memories to an impromptu game of "guess the bird species" whenever they heard a unique chirp or twitter. Half the time, Brynn guessed wrongly because she wasn't a native of Cyrodiil, and the other half, Martin was wrong because he hadn't been outside all that much. They both ended up laughing, however, with contentment that had been brought on my light hearts and full stomachs.

After a while, Martin found himself lying on his back and gazing up at the sky, his head on Brynn's lap as she stroked his hair. He might have guessed that her touch was a fond one, but he didn't want to be wrong. His hands folded across his middle, he exhaled happily and allowed his eyes to close, feeling the sunlight warm his face. It almost felt as if he were going to fall asleep, because his breathing deepened and he felt as if he were floating away from all recognition of time and the world. It would be good to sleep, he thought; he hadn't had enough decent sleep lately, and rather he missed it. It would be especially good now that he was here, in this mountain paradise, with Brynn...

He was almost asleep when he felt pressure on his lips, and he had two immediate questions: what was happening, and what should he do. He realized fairly rapidly that it was a kiss—that _Brynn_ was kissing him—but he wavered between the reaction of staring at her and the reaction of kissing her in return. She started to pull back after a moment; her hair brushed across his face, tickling his skin. Martin's eyes snapped open again to find himself gazing into hers, blue-gray meeting scarlet.

"Brynn..." he whispered.

The Dunmer just barely smiled, her fingers weaving into his hair. Before Martin fully understood what he was doing, he had put his hand around the back of her neck and had gently pulled her down to him, inclining his chin so that their lips again met. Flashes of his life before priesthood came back to him, though he knew in his heart that this was purer and more genuine than any of that had ever been.

The kiss deepened; they held each other a little closer, arms looping around one another as they kissed. Yet after a minute or so, even that perfect moment had to end, and they pulled apart. Martin's head went back onto Brynn's lap, his hands again folded over his middle, and he smiled up at her. A smile of her own tugged at her lips in reply.

"You know," he said with a contented sigh, "I hadn't been expecting this to turn into a romantic getaway."

Brynn laughed, leaning down to rest her cheek against his forehead.

"Neither had I."


	6. Doubt

**Laurels: DOUBT**

One morning, after a relatively restless night, Brynn went to her usual meditation stop atop Cloud Ruler Temple. As she always did, she thought she would say her morning prayers to Azura when the Daedra would be most active—at dawn. Besides, Brynn loved watching the mountain sunrise. Its color and beauty always managed to give her the hope that there was still goodness in the world. So she climbed the maintenance ladder to the roof, her bare feet silent on the rungs.

Yet when she reached the roof, she was surprised by what she found. Martin was there, shirtless as if he'd just climbed out of bed but wrapped in a thick wool cloak, his own bare feet hanging over the edge of the roof. He was motionless and quiet, gazing off to the horizon, and for a moment, Brynn feared he had lingered too long and frozen to death. Even now she was wishing she had remembered to wear shoes.

Quickly, Brynn padded across the roof, settling down beside him. She noticed with relief that he was still breathing, but his eyes were closed and his lips were faintly moving; he was praying. Brynn quickly whispered her own prayers before she glanced at him again, and when she no longer saw his mouth moving, she gently laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Martin?" she murmured.

His eyes slowly opened, and he gazed at the brightening morning sky before turning to look at her. Though he usually smiled in greeting, today he didn't. Brynn's brows crashed together as Martin sighed.

"Brynn," he replied. "You have found me, I see."

"Why, were you running away?" Brynn tried to joke, but Martin didn't laugh."

"You come up here to pray," he said. "I supposed to do the same. Perhaps I thought being physically closer to the Nine would aid their hearing of me."

"I... I have never seen you pray, Martin," Brynn realized aloud. "You must be very private indeed."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps my studies have made a slacker and a heathen of me."

He sighed, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself to shield off the cold mountain atmosphere. After a moment, just as the sun began to peek up over the mountains, he spoke again.

"I cannot do this, Brynn," he whispered, eventually turning weary eyes to her. "You have such a strength about you—a strength I much desire to have. You would ask so much of me, and I would do it, but..."

"You feel you are incapable of such tasks," Brynn finished softly. Martin nodded slowly.

"I have begged Akatosh for strength to endure, and I suppose I must be patient, for none has come. I... was never a patient man, Brynn. I entered Akatosh's service to... to heal... and to try to learn humility and patience. It has not worked thus far, and now I... I am overwhelmed by what is before me."

"Martin," Brynn said, voice hushed, as she reached for his hand, "I've never known you to be so... so _depressed_. Certainly, you have been somber, but you have always clutched _some_ optimism. You've never been like this. When did this happen?"

"When I began thinking about everything," he replied, "and realized how colossal it all was."

"Everything? What do you mean, everything?"

"_Everything_," he stressed. "The invasion, my... _inheritance_, this... this grand destiny that either fate or the gods have thrown at me... How the Blades call me 'Emperor.' _Me_, Brynn. _Emperor._ I cannot do it, Brynn. I am no one. Just the bastard heir of a broken kingdom."

He leaned forward, sighing, his clasped hands on his knees, and Brynn was unsure how to respond. She was silent for many minutes, watching Martin rather than the sunrise. She had not known he had felt this way. Of this suffering, he had been silent. Eventually, Martin sighed again, breath forming a cloud of white vapor in the air, and he looked at her again.

"I cannot do this, Brynn," he repeated, voice shaky. "Not alone."

Brynn bit her lip, shaking her head before gathering him to herself. She pressed his head to her chest, gently stroking his hair; he clung to her upper arm, and that was when she realized he was trembling. She sighed, holding him tenderly.

"You know," she said softly after a while, "when I became the Nerevarine, I doubted myself, too. Who was I, after all? I was merely a penniless Dunmer girl, outcast by her own people and ostracized from her own nation. Yet I was to save it? Oh, Martin, if only you knew the number of times I wished to give up, the number of times I wished to die!

"Martin, you're different, though, if only a little. You've something I did not: people who believe in and support you. The forces of evil may be bent on destroying you, but if you lean on those people, you shall not fall."

Martin was quiet, though he was not trembling as much. Brynn nonetheless kept stroking his hair, and, eventually, he sighed.

"Don't leave me, Brynn," he begged. "Do not make me walk this road alone."

Brynn pressed her cheek to his head, closing her eyes.

"I will not," she breathed. "I promise you that much."


	7. Destiny Awaits

**Author's Note:** Wow, sorry, guys! I almost forgot about this! Okay, I _didn't_ forget, but it's been forever since I wrote TES fic. And then Skyrim was announced and I've been gorging... Here, enjoy! :D

* * *

**LAURELS: Destiny Awaits**

**Setting: **immediately after Kvatch is saved

Brynn had never seen a city so utterly ravaged, so completely destroyed. She never would have guessed that Kvatch was once a flourishing Gold Coast village, full of life and enthusiasm and energy. Now, it was just a hollow shell, the air thick with smoke and the biting scent of fire and death. A heavy rain now poured down over the city, cooling the cracked, ashen ground and putting out the fires still raging. Leaping flames gave way to loud hisses and plumes of smoke and steam puffing into the air. As she emerged from the castle with the captain of the guard, she could do nothing but stand and look in horror at the destruction. A few guardsmen were dragging daedra corpses into piles to be burned. The dead citizens were finally being located, dragged out, covered with what cloths they could find in an attempt to give them what little dignity was available.

"If you hadn't come," Savlian said next to Brynn, his face smudged with soot and blood, "it would have been a lot worse."

Brynn nodded wordlessly, not saying that, had she come sooner, things would have been a lot better. She looked at the toppled chapel bell tower and sighed heavily. Surely all the benevolent gods that were had been looking out for Martin and what was left of the people, because that bell tower could have just as easily fallen straight through the roof and crushed everyone inside the chapel. Instead, it fell to the side, where no one was hurt.

The whole scene made her want to cry, and she did so openly; no one could tell because of the rain. She could have cried for herself, but Brynn had long since abandoned such selfishness, even though her sword arm was practically numb from an arrowhead stuck within, even though her hair was soaking wet and sticking to her face and neck, even though she was cold and tired and every inch of her body hurt.

"I'm going to find Martin," she told Savlian when the tears had passed. "Come find me if you need more help."

"Thank you, but no," the captain said gently. "You've done far more than was needed or necessary. I won't ask any more of you. We owe you all our lives."

Brynn nodded weakly as she limped for the main gates. She leaned against one of the doors with her shield shoulder, shoving it open even as her boots slipped in the mud. She didn't fall, though, and soon found herself crossing the threshold where the Oblivion gate had been. The sharp, red-tipped claws still spiked out of the ground; the earth was still hot under her feet, scorched so badly that Brynn had to wonder if grass would ever grow again.

She slowly made her way down the mountain, clutching her shoulder, trying not to lose her balance and just roll down the road to the refugee camp. The torrent of rain slowed to a steady trickle as she meandered down the uneven road, but that didn't make her hair and armor any less drenched. In the back of her mind, she remembered how she had come to Balmora in rain like this, so long ago. The gentle drizzle had quickly turned to a storm, though, and she had shivered the whole night, huddled under the upper balcony of the Fighters Guild because she had no money to buy a room at an inn. Still, this day was far worse; there was so much death and her armor was caked with black daedra blood, though the rain was slowly washing it away. If only she could treat it as a healing flow.

She must have looked a sight as she appeared in the camp, body aching and her arm numb and cold down to her fingertips. She tried to flex them but couldn't and had a split-second terror of being unable to lift a sword for the rest of her life. She saw the remaining villages huddled under their little tents, comforting their children, tending small wounds and caring for the sick. They saw her, too, as she staggered into their midst, and Brynn realized just how exhausted she was. She felt her knees weakening, weakening... and they at last gave out on her. Her legs folded underneath her, and she fell, but she was somehow caught, lifted up. She wearily looked up and saw it was Martin who had caught her. He looked at her with the most intense eyes she'd ever seen, a cloak around his shoulders and a hood over his head to shield himself from the rain.

"You've done too much," he murmured, helping her to a bedroll shielded by a small tent. Brynn gladly lay back upon it with a groan.

"I've done what was needed," she whispered, her lips dry and her voice hoarse. Martin tipped a small bowl of water to her lips, and she somehow remembered not to guzzle it, instead sipping gingerly until her throat felt less like the inside of a sock.

"We owe you everything," Martin said, his voice betraying his own exhaustion as he knelt beside Brynn's side, seeing the flow of blood out of her shoulder and unbuckling her pauldron.

Brynn didn't reply, instead closing her eyes as the young priest she'd been sent to find gently worked the arrowhead free. She cried out in pain, almost thrashing, but his voice met her ear, soothing her. She bit her up almost until it bled, whimpering softly. Something gave in her shoulder, and she heard Martin force out a breath of air and a sigh of "There we go." From the corner of her eye, she saw the glow of a spell; her skin tingled as he healed her, stopping the bleeding with magic and binding her arm tightly with bandages so she didn't strain it too hard.

"Can you move your fingers?" he asked her. Brynn tried and did so, faintly. Martin nodded. "Good. You'll recover."

"Thank you," Brynn croaked softly, opening her eyes to look up at him as the numbness began to recede. He gave her a small smile and put his hand over hers.

"I should be saying that to you," he said. "I know who you are, Nerevarine, and if you hadn't come, I would surely be dead. I didn't want to believe your words at first, but you would not have come to Kvatch on this very day if you did not have reason to believe that I am... who you say I am. I owe you my life, and, at the very least, I will travel to Weynon Priory with you."

"Then we should go quickly," Brynn said, starting to sit up only to have Martin push her back, his hand on her good shoulder.

"You need rest," he insisted, "as do I. We would both collapse if we tried to leave now. We will go in the morning; for now, rest."

Something about the way he said that sounded more like a command than a suggestion, and Brynn nodded, closing her eyes and letting herself sleep into the deep darkness of sleep.

It felt as though she had only just dozed off, however, when the tittering of a bird overhead made her open her eyes to see bright sunlight and smell breakfast being cooked at the refugees' campfire. Her arm felt much better, and she slowly sat up, flexing her fingers and collecting her pauldron before getting up off the bedroll. She buckled the pauldron into place, emerging from the tent Martin had placed her in the day before.

The day had dawned bright and beautiful; the sky was pure blue and cloudless, with birds zipping to and fro. Cyrodiil was laid out before her in all its early autumnal glory, and she could scarcely believe that it looked like that when she could turn and look up the hill and see a place that looked like the Deadlands itself. As much as she wanted it to be a dream, she knew it wasn't when she saw Martin, his robes still smudged with dirt and the hem still scorched, seated by the fire with a little girl on his lap. Brynn recognized the little girl; that was the child whose doll she had returned. Even now, the doll was tightly clutched under the child's arm as she chattered animatedly with Martin. He still looked tired, Brynn noticed, but she never would have been able to tell if she were only listening to him.

He looked up as she approached, smiling wearily in the morning sunlight. The little girl on his knee looked up, too, gasping in delight as she jumped off Martin's lap and scrambled for Brynn, hugging her tightly around the leg.

"You're all better!" she squealed. "I'm so glad! Molly's glad, too. Aren't you, Molly?"

She made the doll nod, and Brynn laughed softly as she slowly knelt to the girl's level. Her body was still sore, but she got down there, and the little girl beamed brightly, twisting back and forth in excitement.

"Mommy said you're a hero," she announced, eyes sparkling. "I never met a hero before! Mommy says they're gonna call you the Hero of Kvatch now, and that eeeeeeeeeverybody's gonna know that you saved us!"

"I'm just glad I got here in time," Brynn said, her cheeks flushing a little. Great, another title—just what she always wanted. The little girl giggled, clutching Molly to her chest.

"So am I! Otherwise, Molly woulda... woulda... woulda gotten burnt! An' that woulda been bad."

Her mother called her then, and the little girl called out "Bye, Hero!" before scrambling away. Brynn smiled and started to get up, but her body protested and she grimaced in pain. She was surprised to find Martin's hands on her, one on her back and one supporting her elbow, helping her to her feet.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I guess I'm not used to fighting such a huge battle."

"I'm not used to living through one," Martin replied, taking her to where he was seated and helping her get settled with a bowl of corn grits and salt pork. "It's not as if I became a priest for the adventure."

He made a sound that was half a snort and half a chuckle, and Brynn had to smile. She didn't bother asking him just how little adventure priesthood entailed _or_ how he came to select that life. She didn't know him well enough, and he had enough on his mind as it was. She'd turned his world upside down yesterday, after all, by telling him he was actually the last living Septim. Instead, she ate in peace, not even really looking around until Martin sighed, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his thighs as he clasped his hands.

"I'm going to miss them," he said, blue eyes fixed on the refugees. Brynn looked up.

"The congregation?" she asked.

"Mm. The whole city. I knew everyone. I've been here five years as the head priest at the chapel. I've baptized their babies, performed last rites for their dying. This is home to me."

"I know this is difficult for you," Brynn murmured. "Believe me, I _know_. Destiny is always so painful at first. It requires a certain faith that none of us are born with."

"Least of all me," Martin sighed, sitting up a little straighter. Brynn decided not to press for an explanation when he didn't offer one. Instead, he waited in silence until she had finished her breakfast, at which time he washed out her bowl and collected a small rucksack that apparently contained all his worldly belongings.

"If you're ready," he said, "so am I."

"No, you're not," Brynn noted, getting to her feet—more easily that time. "You might be ready to leave here and go to Weynon, but no one's ever ready for their destiny."

"You know that too, do you?" he asked, and Brynn smiled a little as she took off her right gauntlet and extended her hand. The moon-and-star glinted brightly in the sunlight.

"I certainly do," she replied.

Martin studied the ring for a few moments, exhaling shakily.

"Yes, I suppose you do. Just... one moment."

Brynn nodded as he turned back to the people. He'd apparently told them he was leaving, that something greater than himself waited beyond the road sign at the end of the path out of Kvatch, because they all swarmed around him, hugging him and shaking his hand. Some of them cried, and some of the older women kissed his cheek in a motherly fashion. Brynn thought Martin was going to cry, so she didn't watch too closely, instead looking away out of respect. The children in particular seemed heartbroken that he was leaving, because they all attacked him at once, hugging him anywhere they could: arms, legs, waist, neck. The little girl with the doll was crying as he held her, her arms tight around his neck and her legs tight around his waist, as if she wanted to go with him. Brynn glanced up and saw that; her throat tightened and she had to look away again, though she saw that Martin was saying reassuring things to her before her mother gently disentangled her from him.

Martin slowly withdrew from all of their shower of warm wishes and sad goodbyes, though Brynn heard his voice lift above the farewells to promise that he'd come back someday. She wasn't watching, but she knew he was doing the hardest thing he could possibly do: stepping out into the dark unknown, eyes open but feeling as if they were shut, following a destiny he hadn't known he'd had. Brynn knew the feeling well.

He came to her and nodded wordlessly; Brynn returned the nod, and they turned and walked away down the road out of Kvatch. They came to the crossroads and turned toward Skingrad, and Martin sighed heavily.

"I didn't expect it to feel like that," he said softly.

"It always does," Brynn replied, equally softly, her hand straying for his shoulder and gently squeezing. "Destiny has an odd way of giving us hope and breaking our hearts at the same time."

"At least I can take comfort in knowing you've done something like this before."

"Yes, you can. And I'll be with you until wherever this road ends."

Martin looked at her and nodded slowly; he knew she didn't mean the physical road, the one that would take them to Skingrad, to the Imperial City, to Chorrol and Weynon Priory. Brynn just squeezed his shoulder again before her hand returned to her side and they walked on, away from Kvatch and toward whatever the gods had planned—for both of them.


	8. Happy Birthday, Brynn

**LAURELS: Happy Birthday, Brynn**

_Setting: Cloud Ruler Temple._

It was the nineteenth of Hearthfire when Martin awoke with the oddest sensation that he needed to do something or find out about something or... or _something_. He hated that feeling. It was the Septim blood, he knew, but just _knowing_ things didn't make him feel well at all. He found he had an irrational fear of waking up psychic. Of course, that was highly unlikely, but he still didn't like it.

It took him most of the morning to determine what was the cause of his unease. He went to breakfast as he always did; he drank the same two cups of tea as he always did; he passed the Blades Caroline and Pelagius in the hall as he went to the library, as he always did...

Brynn. Brynn was missing. Out adventuring, probably, unless Jauffre gave her something to do.

...Brynn.

Brynnbrynnbrynnbrynn.

Why she lingered in his mind longer than usual, Martin didn't know, until he found the thick book about the Amulet of Kings that she had given him for his birthday. That was when he realized what he needed to know: her birthday.

He nearly dropped his books as he tore out of the library, looking for Jauffre and sometimes calling for him. The Blades nearly had heart attacks as they saw their Emperor racing like Mehrunes Dagon was hanging onto the seat of his pants. Martin nearly collided with an extremely worried Jauffre in the great hall, finding himself out of breath.

"By the Nine, Martin, what's wrong?" Jauffre pressed, evidently panicked by Martin's fervor.

"Brynn!" he exclaimed, getting his breath back and trying to calm down. "You said she was a Blade before, in Morrowind, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, I did," Jauffre replied, surprised that all Martin wanted was to ask about the slim Dunmer who was out riding around Cyrodiil just then.

"Then you would have records of her as the Grandmaster of the order," Martin insisted.

"Yes, of course, but why?"

"When is her birthday?"

Jauffre stared at Martin for a few moments, questioning his ears. Had Martin _really_ just said what he thought he had said?

"Was all that ruckus just because you want to know her _birthday_?" Jauffre queried, nonplussed and beginning to grow highly annoyed. Martin looked surprised.

"Well... yes. She's been a dear friend, Jauffre, and I think it would be unfair if I didn't do _something_ for her. She's always going out of her way to help me, and I... I need to do something for her."

Jauffre looked at him a bit strangely, and Martin squirmed inside, hoping the old Blade didn't see just how fond Martin was of Brynn. Jauffre sighed after a moment and acquiesced, leading Martin up to his study to check the paperwork. Martin lingered eagerly in the doorway as Jauffre settled at a desk, pulling out a thick book bound in dark blue leather—the Blades' roster, obviously. Jauffre sighed as he opened the heavy parchment pages toward the back. Martin slipped in behind him, peering over his shoulders as Jauffre searched for Brynn within the register. The list wasn't alphabetical, Martin noticed. It was chronological, newest recruits last. So that was where Jauffre was looking. He eventually stopped on a page, and Martin saw it first.

LAUREL, BRYNN

DARK ELF (DUNMER)

20 HEARTHFIRE 3E 408 (THE LADY)

18 LAST SEED 3E 427

CAIUS COSADES

BALMORA, VVARDENFELL ISLAND, MORROWIND

"There she is," he murmured, a small sense of awe washing over him. That was six years ago, when Brynn was just a scared prisoner, dropped off in a homeland she barely remembered. She'd told him about it, what it was like to return to her childhood home after almost a decade away. "What does it all mean?"

"It's her recruitment record," Jauffre said, proceeding to read down the list and name each item. "This is her name, race, known or approximated date of birth and birth sign, date of induction, the person who inducted her, and the location of induction."

"So her birthday is... tomorrow!" Martin said, the awe suddenly replaced by dread and even a bit of panic. "By the Nine, I'll miss it... Jauffre, I have to go to Bruma. Don't let the Blades worry about me; I'm sure I'll be just fine. I _have_ to do _something_ for her!"

Before Jauffre could protest, Martin darted out of the study and away down the stairs. Jauffre ran after him but only saw his back as Martin grabbed a heavy, fur-lined cloak, threw it around his shoulders, and disappeared out the doors of the great hall. When Jauffre caught up, Martin was off down the road to Bruma on the same bay horse he'd ridden to Cloud Ruler Temple.

Martin rode as fast as the snowy road would let him. He didn't dare compromise his noble, sturdy horse, no matter how desperately he needed to get to Bruma. He didn't know when Brynn would be back, and if her birthday was _tomorrow_...

He arrived in due time, leaving the horse outside the city at the stables to be tended to as he slipped in through the gates to conduct his business. Bruma was bustling, like always, and Martin felt right at home among the peaked roofs and snowy streets. The Nords were sometimes a bit... overwhelming, both in size and the strength of their ale breath, but Martin liked how easy it was to blend in. Of course, he felt so small when he passed the statue of Tiber Septim in front of the chapel, reflecting silently on the fact that _that_ was his ancestor, one of his many noble—and not so illustrious—forebears. It made him feel like nothing, but he brushed those thoughts aside, reminding himself that it was not a day to think about himself. This was about _Brynn_.

Of course, he hardly knew where to begin. He didn't know if Novaroma would have something exquisite enough for a woman as magnificent as Brynn. By the Nine, all he had to do was _look_ at her and he couldn't think straight! How was he supposed to find anything good enough for her in a place like Bruma? If he had time, he'd go to the Imperial City and browse every single shop...

As he entered the shop, hearing the bell on the wooden door chime as he opened and shut the door, he tried to think about what Brynn liked. She loved books, but the collections at her Anvil and Bruma homes were already massive. She loved Morrowind, and Bruma _did_ have quite a bit of Dunmer influence... Jewelry, she had. She had a dozen enchanted rings and pendants that she never wore, and the only pieces she _did_ wear were the moon-and-star ring from Azura and the Ring of the Hortator. Beyond that...

"May I help you, good sir?" the Altmer shopkeeper asked, and Martin said yes, he desperately needed help seeking a birthday gift for a woman. Suurootan clicked his tongue with an "Ah" of understanding.

"I have a fine assortment of quality clothing," he said, trying to display the collection to Martin. "Velvet, satin, silk—everything your lady needs to feel elegant!"

"No, thank you," Martin said, raising a hand. "I don't think that would suit her."

A sword might, though, but Brynn was attached to Trueflame and would never settle for another. Suurootan paused in thought before showing Martin to the shoes. Again, Martin gently refused; Brynn would never abandon the sturdy netch leather boots she'd brought from Morrowind. After that, jewelry was offered, and when Martin refused a third time, Suurootan gave him a bit of a frown.

"Well, why don't _you_ tell me your lady's interests?"

Oddly, Martin didn't feel interested in noting that Brynn was not "his lady." He didn't know why, but it sounded good to hear her called that. He exhaled slowly, thinking.

"She's lived most of her life in Morrowind," he began thoughtfully. "She's a warrior at heart, and she loves horses. And books."

"Horses and books," Suurootan repeated slowly, "for an emigrant from Morrowind. Tell me, does she own any detailed maps of the province?"

"Of Morrowind? If she does, she didn't bring them with her."

"Ah! Then I have just the thing... granted, there are no horses, but..."

The Altmer went to a locked chest behind the sales counter and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound book that immediately shouted "BRYNN!" to Martin. Martin approached, gazing curiously at the book as Suurootan opened it gingerly.

"This is the crown jewel of my wares," he said. "I had it imported last year but no one has seemed, well, worthy enough to even look at it, much less buy it. You see, this is no ordinary book, no, no. Anyone can write novels about Morrowind, cheap little two-septim things. Drab business, those; terrible quality. Anyway. _This_ is an entire history of the province. I bet your native friend won't know half the things in here, mm? And there are maps. Oh, the _maps_! I asked a cartographer friend of mine, and _he_ says that the maps alone are worth twice what I'm asking for this fine piece of Dunmer history."

Martin slowly turned the pages, looking at the delicate type and finding the intricate maps. Yes... yes, _this_ was perfect...

"How much are you asking?" Martin asked, finding Balmora on a detailed map of Vvardenfell and gently tracing it with his index finger. Suurootan was quick to answer.

"Three hundred septims, firm."

Martin nearly choked. He didn't _have_ that much in his pocket! He didn't even have that much in the entire world!

Suurootan saw him choke and was quick to add, "But my cartographer friend says the maps are worth twice that!"

"I know," Martin said, managing to sound less like he was about to gag on the price. He sighed, stroking the map. He needed a gift for Brynn, and this was _perfect_... Maybe Jauffre would lend him something... "I don't have that money _with_ me..."

He thought Suurootan would refuse when Martin emptied his coin purse and found he only had ten septims. When he saw the Altmer hesitating, he quickly jumped at it again, pulling off the custom-made dragon-shaped signet ring Jauffre had given him, the one with the _M_ carved in the dragon's head. He gazed at the ring for a moment before he sighed and reached out to put it down on the counter.

"Here," he said, putting it on the counter with the septims. "That alone is worth the price of the book. Take it on trade, _please_."

"My, my," Suurootan said, picking up the ring and studying it, seeing it was made of solid silver and custom molded. "You must be very fond indeed of this young lady to sacrifice so fine a trinket. Very well. This will cover the price, I'm sure."

Martin thanked him and watched as Suurootan put the ring away in a lockbox behind the counter, sealing it away from him forever. He sighed and tried not to rub at his empty middle finger as Suurootan wrapped up the book in thick brown paper and twine for safekeeping. When Martin rode back to Cloud Ruler, he held that book clutched to his chest with one arm while he held the reins with the other. He didn't think about the ring again, even though it had been a very fine gift to him. But Brynn was more important to him than a signet ring, and he kept that book in his room for the rest of the day, hoping to have an opportunity to give it to her.

He didn't see her again until mid-morning the next day. She wasn't in armor, a fact that indicated her return wasn't just a temporary stop before more adventures took her away. Martin found he was actually nervous as he finally caught her during a moment of little activity.

"Good morning," he said, and she turned to him with a smile.

"It is, isn't it?" she replied, eyes gleaming. By the Nine, she was so magnificently beautiful...

"I've... ah, I've something I want you to see," Martin said, noting how Brynn's head cocked sideways ever so slightly, indicating interest.

"You do?" she asked.

Martin nodded and motioned for her to follow him. She did so, and he led her up to his room. There was the book, still wrapped and waiting beside his bed. She didn't see it at first, apparently, because she was confused when Martin led her inside and closed the door behind them. But then he smiled shakily and went to collect the heavy book, bringing it over to her.

"Apparently, I almost missed your birthday," he said, reveling in the surprise in her wide eyes as he put the heavy package into her hand. "So... this is for you. Happy birthday."

"Oh, Martin," she sighed, looking at him, then down at the package. "You really didn't..."

"Maybe, but you do so much for me that I _wanted_ to. Open it, please."

She did so, carefully untying the twine and unfolding the paper. Martin's heart was pounding as Brynn pulled the paper away to reveal the book, and she gasped as she opened it, recognizing it for what it was. She was so amazed that she had to sit down on a bench under one of the windows. Martin slowly sat down with her, thrilled as she turned the aged pages, adoring the contents and basking in the warm, papery scent.

"Oh, Martin," she breathed as the page turned to reveal the first of the maps. She looked up at him, tears filling in her eyes. Martin, however, wasn't afraid that she hadn't liked it. If anything, he knew her tears represented happiness. "This is... this is beautiful..."

"I'm glad you like it," he murmured. He dared not tell her the cost. "I saw it and couldn't do anything but buy it for you. It's literally the least I can do for you."

Tears were running down her cheeks as she smiled and put her palm to his jaw. That gentle touch sent a jolt through him, but he slowly reached up to place his hand over hers. The touch lasted but a moment before she smiled, brushed her tears away, and went back to reading her new book, sometimes reading parts aloud to Martin, sometimes showing him places she'd visited. Martin reveled in it all, though he made sure to keep his bare finger out of sight. He had made her happy, and that was all that really mattered.


	9. Feelings

**LAURELS: Feelings**

_Setting: Sometime between Blood of a Divine and the Great Gate of Bruma. In-game-Brynn tends to leave the main quest hanging for weeks or months (Cyrodiil time) at a time, hence the room for fics._**  
**

Vvardenfell didn't have mountains, Brynn Laurel reflected one morning as she stood out on the ramparts of Cloud Ruler Temple, a stone mug full of hot tea clasped between her hands. At least, there hadn't been mountains like the Jeralls. Red Mountain had, at the time, been the biggest thing she'd never seen spiking out of the otherwise flat earth. And to think, that dangerous, frightening mountain had been the scene of her greatest victory. Once Dagoth Ur was dead and the Heart of Lorkhan destroyed, the mountain lost its fearsome reputation. Brynn could only imagine the letters of gratitude still piling up at her little house in the wilds of Vvardenfell.

She was not wearing her typical Blades armor with her new crimson cloak flung over her shoulders, a sword at her hip and a shield on her arm. Instead, as she stood there with her tea, watching the blue-black of night give way to the bright golden sunrise, she was clad in a plain green robe, somewhat boring and incredibly understated for the Nerevarine, with little green velvet shoes protecting her feet from the cold and the rough stonework. At least she'd taken precautions to keep out the cold, because she was wearing a heavy fur coat that she had purchased just yesterday down in Bruma.

She loved Bruma, she realized as she thought about the house she'd just purchased there so she could be closer to Cloud Ruler and to Martin. As much as she loved Anvil, with the salty sea spray permeating the air and the cries of the gulls filling the skies, she loved the rough-hewn survivalist mentality of Bruma. Though it was more akin to Skyrim, the city reminded her of Balmora, in a way: a strange place with a strange local culture that had overwhelmed her at first. The rough, sturdy log houses were quite similar to the adobe and stonework in Balmora. The only difference was that Bruma was always snowy and Balmora had been always balmy.

Brynn sighed contentedly as she sipped at her tea, watching the sun creep over the mountains like a child grinning mischievously as he spied on his playmates and prepared to scare them by leaping out and shrieking, "BOO!" Brynn laughed at that mental image, and she tugged her coat a little more tightly around herself. She exhaled, and her breath formed a cloud of vapor that hung in the air for a few moments before disappearing. She watched the sunset and murmured her morning prayers, just under her breath.

"Azura, Lady of Dawn and Dusk, grant me strength and courage."

That was it. In days past, when she was still back east, in Morrowind, she had gone up to Caius's roof to face the sunrise and implore the Lady for her grace and her forgiveness for Brynn's trespasses. In those days, she would have been on her knees until well after the sun had risen, asking for the courage to face the Blight and become the Nerevarine that Azura wanted. Now, her faith in the Daedra was a little more solidified, though she did go down to Bruma with Martin every Sundas for chapel services. She admired the Nine, quite frankly. They embodied the best of all species. Of course, it probably helped that she found herself quite taken with a certain priest of Akatosh.

Speaking of whom, she heard the soft thudding of leather-soled shoes approaching slowly behind her, and she turned to find Martin there, blinking in the sunlight as if he'd just awakened. He also looked quite cold, rubbing at his arms. Brynn saw that the eyes of every Blade on the ramparts were on their future Emperor, and she ventured toward him.

"Shouldn't you be inside, sire, where it's actually warm?" she said, teasing him by calling him sire. The teasing worked, because he sighed and frowned, brows creasing in a way that made him look so attractively brooding. Brynn felt her stomach flip flop in a way that it hadn't done even when she was considering marrying Varvur Sarethi. His father had set up the arrangement; no wonder it had fallen through.

"Shouldn't you?" Martin retorted, and Brynn had to laugh at that.

"I'm a bit hardier than I look, trust me."

"So am I," Martin said, his brooding scowl relaxing into a gentle smile as he turned with Brynn to go back inside Cloud Ruler's great hall. "Admittedly, however, Kvatch was never this cold, nor was Skingrad."

"Did you grow up in Skingrad?" Brynn asked as the heavy oaken doors shut behind them and they were once again within the warmth of the great hall. She placed her now-empty mug on a table as she shrugged off her coat, hanging it on one of the many cloak hooks just inside the doors. She collected her mug and started venturing toward the mess hall, Martin at her side. He looked as if he were finally warming up again as he nodded.

"My parents were farmers there," he said. Brynn noticed how easily he referred to the people who had raised him as his parents, whereas he still had immense difficulty acknowledging the late Uriel Septim as his father by blood. "My father raised livestock and grew quite a few different grains that he sold to a granary not that far away. My mother had a job tending one of the local vineyards when she wasn't at home making sure I stayed out of trouble."

"Ah, you were a troublemaker, then," Brynn said, teasing him again as they entered the mess hall and she immediately veered for more tea. Martin laughed and settled at a table, quickly dismissing a Blade that tried to wait on him hand and foot. Brynn noticed and had to smile; if there were one thing she admired about Martin, it was that his status as the heir to the Imperial throne hadn't turned him into a powdered dandy. He still went down to Bruma without a guard, rode horses, sparred with the Blades—often using live steel, no less—and got his own food and drink.

"I was," Martin said, breaking open a breakfast roll. The golden crust cracked loudly, making him smile as he smeared butter on the hearty bread. "And I bet you were, too, weren't you? Everything you do has a dignified air to it, as if you learned what to do by doing the exact opposite."

"Why do you think I was in prison when I was a child?" Brynn noted, pouring boiling water over the tea strainer balanced across the mouth of her cup. "I stole so often that I should have been the wealthiest child in Tamriel, but I was very poor at being sneaky. The mess that got me in prison for a few years before being sent to Morrowind was just that—a mess, and a massive one at that.

"I was born in Morrowind, but I didn't stay there," she continued when Martin glanced interestedly in her direction. The light in the hall glinted off the moon-and-star ring on her right index finger. "When I was old enough and had saved enough coin, I came to Cyrodiil looking for adventure and more money. I ended up in the Imperial City, thinking I could find the most rich targets there.

"Well, I was right. But I wasn't clever enough to pick the pockets of the rich and mighty. I tried, though. One day, I picked the pocket of a nobleman and came out with his whole coin purse. He noticed and began screaming for the guards."

"And, being overzealous as they are, they ignored the fact that you were a child and threw you into the dungeons?" Martin suggested, getting up to brew his own tea. "Remind me to issue an order that they show more discernment in their treatment of criminals..."

"I will, but you're not Emperor yet," Brynn said, and the smile that tugged at his lips made her want to lean over and kiss his stubbled cheek. When was the last time he shaved? Oh, it didn't matter; the shadow suited him. But she yanked herself from those distracting thoughts by continuing, "I took off running, of course, but the guards _and_ the nobleman gave chase. I thought I'd never get away and so I started jumping over low walls and whatnot. The guards knew they couldn't clear what I was springing over, what with their heavy armor and all, but the nobleman thought he could make it.

"He looked like a pig trying to jump out of its sty, to be honest, and it ended as poorly as you can imagine. His clothes caught on the stones of the little wall, abruptly ending his jump. He went down screaming, and I heard this awful crack... I paused long enough to turn back and see that he'd fallen and broken his neck."

"By the Nine," Martin breathed, earlier smile fading to a creased-brow look of horror. Brynn nodded.

"I was so scared by that that I just... froze. I stopped moving. The guards caught up, of course, snatched the coin purse, and informed me that the nobleman was dead. I was just a child, but I knew that it was my fault. I tried to get away but they just clapped me in irons and took me away."

"Oh, Brynn..." Martin whispered, a hand straying for her shoulder. Brynn reached back and put her hand over his, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"On the plus side, the judge said they couldn't execute me for murder until I came of age—but that they could imprison me until then. I was awaiting my execution when the Emperor personally ordered my release and I went to Morrowind, cleared of the crime and very confused."

"And everyone knows what happened," Martin said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "You became Azura's chosen one, saved Morrowind, and became a national hero."

"You make it sound so easy," Brynn said with a small laugh as she turned toward him. "Gods' blood, I can't even begin to describe the number of fist fights I almost got into with Nords because they teased me about being an elf. And you wouldn't _believe_ how much ridicule I endured for being an outlander."

"I thought you were born in Morrowind," Martin said, taking the tea leaves out of his cup and stirring in sugar.

"I was. On Vvardenfell Island, no less, somewhere outside Ald'ruhn. But I had been away for so long that my speech and habits weren't anything like the local ones. I mean, listen to me talk. I sound like I'm from Cyrodiil. Had I lived in Morrowind all my life, my accent would be different: rougher, more intense. I wouldn't ramble on like I am now; I'd be succinct and haughty and call every other person 'outlander.'"

She was smiling during that last sentence, feeling a small sense of nostalgia for the days when she'd been called that, even though she'd hated that name at the time. Martin smiled, too, and she looked at him, quietly pleased to find his intense blue eyes on her.

"...instead, here I am," she said, her voice falling to a murmur, "hoping to save the world again."

"I'm sure you'll succeed," Martin said, just as quietly, his hand reaching out and gently brushing past her arm as he took her hand and squeezed. Brynn looked down at his hand and squeezed back, enjoying the work-roughened texture of his palm, the warmth of his skin. She rubbed an ashen thumb over his knuckles, sighing.

"At the very least, I can say that I am very dear friends with an Emperor," she noted. Martin smiled at her and nodded in agreement, eyes crinkling with humor, and Brynn wanted to just beg him to kiss her. But that would be inappropriate and unprofessional. His hand slowly withdrew from hers, and just as fast, she craved the feel of his fingers intertwined with her.

_By Azura, get yourself together!_ she chided herself as Martin collected his tea.

Her face felt hot; her hands, damp. Her heart was racing and she feared she was trembling. He was still so close that she could smell him, an earthy blend of cedar and masculinity. His hair fell forward and past his shoulders as he turned away, taking his tea back to the little dining table, and Brynn wanted to follow him and touch it. Getting herself together wasn't working very well at all, she realized despondently. She didn't want to reduce herself to a squealing, swooning schoolgirl, but Martin made her want to run to the top of a mountain and dance before the whole world. Varvur had never done that. If anything, he'd annoyed her with his bumbling attempts at flirtation. Martin... was nothing like Varvur Sarethi.

"I should... go see if there's anything I need to do today," Brynn said hastily, darting as quickly as she could out of the dining area. She thought she felt Martin's curious gaze follow her out, but she left too quickly to be sure.

As fast as she was able, she got out and back to her room, where she promptly changed into her armor. She took as long as she could to do so, washing her face for the second time that morning in an attempt to stop the blushing. She looked at herself in the mirror, saw the swaths of red across her gray-blue cheeks. She put her hands on her cheeks and sighed, closing her eyes and making herself breathe slowly, deeply, evenly. When she reopened her eyes, the scarlet patches had faded to tinges of pink, and her heart had stopped pounding as much.

The crisp, biting mountain air helped further as she ventured outside, avoiding the great hall and the east wing of the temple. She went to the stables and collected Ebonheart, pleased that one of the Blades had already fed, groomed, and tacked the pitch-black mare. All that Brynn was left to do was swing into the saddle and slowly descend the temple's steps.

When she was outside the gates and they closed behind her, she found herself looking back at the looming fortress. Of all the thoughts she could have had regarding the place, the only one that surfaced was "Martin's in there." She felt the blushing start again as she rode away, wintry air stinging her cheeks. She tried to ignore the quiet, deep-seated yearning to be back at the temple with him, but it wouldn't do away. She didn't want to admit that the Nerevarine was falling in love with the quiet priest who would be Emperor, but... that was the truth.

Accepting that truth didn't feel like a wave breaking on the shore. There was no moment of eureka; there was no pause, no wide-eyed stare of shock into the distance. Instead, her unease faded as she forced herself to stop fighting what she felt, giving way to a quiet peace that lingered in harmony with her yearning to be beside him. It was as if she'd known it all along, and, in a way, perhaps she did.

When she finally returned to Cloud Ruler late that night after a day full of closing Oblivion gates and doing jobs for the Fighters Guild, she left Ebonheart in the care of the stable boy and quietly stole into the west wing—and into Martin's room. The Blade standing watch warned her that he was asleep, but Brynn promised not to disturb him as she slipped through the sliding screen door. She smiled a little as she saw him, hair tousled on the pillow. He was deeply asleep, curled tightly under the blankets. Only a small portion of his bare shoulder was visible as he slept, and Brynn silently moved across the room to him. When she was close enough, she knelt down on one knee beside him, her hand braced gently on the mattress. She took a deep breath before leaning over and kissing his lips so lightly that it was like the fluttering of a butterfly's wing. Then she pulled away and rose before he awoke, reaching over and gently stroking his wavy brown hair.

"I will not hide this," she whispered in the silence and the darkness broken only by the undulating flame of a dying candle. "I love you."

Then she turned and quickly left before he could awaken, closing the door behind herself. She didn't see that Martin rolled over and sat up as soon as the door closed, one hand gently touching his lips. She didn't see him smile shyly in the shadows before nestling down in his bed once more, gazing up at the ceiling with an arm braced behind his head.

"I will not hide it, either."


	10. Treasures

**LAURELS: Treasures**

_Setting: Cloud Ruler Temple.  
Timeline: After "Dagon Shrine" and "Spies" but before "Blood of the Daedra." Based on an audio file I found in the Oblivion data files that features Martin snapping at an over-concerned Blade.  
Content: Mush and a little sorrow._

Brynn loved mornings at Cloud Ruler Temple. They were always so quiet, so peaceful. Granted, she disliked the stark coldness of the mountains since she was more used to the warmth of Morrowind, but she enjoyed the quiet. So, one morning, after breakfast and after listening in on the Blades' morning prayers to Talos, Brynn slipped outside to the stables to tend to her horse. Ebonheart nickered happily when she saw her friend, pushing her soft muzzle into Brynn's hip as she looked for breakfast. Brynn smiled at her, kissing her forehead and rubbing the small white star there.

"Good morning, my friend," she murmured. "I hope you slept well."

Ebonheart just pushed her nose into Brynn's hip pocket again, and Brynn nudged her away.

"All right, you hungry beast," she said. "I'm getting your breakfast."

She turned away and grabbed a pail to dip out oats from the grain bin. Ebonheart whinnied delightedly when the oats came pouring into the trough, and she quickly thrust her head down to eat. As she munched, Brynn grabbed a brush and began grooming her mare. Their silent bond was made a little stronger in those few quiet moments, and when Brynn was finished, she leaned her head against the mare's jet-black coat. She didn't say anything; just leaned there. Ebonheart lifted her head and reached back toward Brynn, nuzzling Brynn's shoulder. Brynn smiled and rubbed Ebonheart's nose, offering her another kiss. After another few minutes, Brynn stood up and patted Ebonheart's rump.

"I'll be back a little later," she told her. "I'll get your stall then. Enjoy your breakfast, my friend."

Ebonheart nickered as if she understood and returned to her meal. Brynn slipped out, closing the stall door behind her, and headed back to the temple. She had plans to slip through the great hall back to the dining hall for a second cup of tea, but she paused when she spotted Martin sitting on the front steps of the temple. He was slouched over, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, and face downcast.

"By Azura," Brynn commented as she approached, pausing in front of him. "You are the most miserable-looking heir to the throne that I have ever seen. Then again, you're the _only_ heir to _any_ throne that I've ever met, but my point remains."

"You're so sympathetic," he muttered dryly, not glancing up. "You are, you know. _So_ sympathetic."

Brynn frowned a little and took a seat beside him on the step, gently nudging his shoulder with hers.

"All right, what's wrong, sire?"

Martin groaned, leaning his head back.

"For the last time, it's _Martin_. My _name_ is _Martin_. Just. Plain. Martin."

"Very well, then, Just-Plain-Martin," Brynn rephrased, trying to brighten his mood; instead, he just groaned again. "What's wrong?"

"Brynn," he stated with a sigh, "you did not tell me that Cloud Ruler Temple would be so dull."

"Perhaps because I did not know myself. What were you expecting, Martin?" she asked gently. "The Market District?"

She thought fondly of the Market District in the Imperial City, with all its noise and commotion, all the wonderful items and bargains to be had. It was a far cry from the tiny shops of Balmora or the open-air shops of Gnisis, but it was adventure of its own variety. She had purchased Ebonheart in the city also, so of course she had fond memories. Martin shook his head.

"No," he said. "I do not know what I was expecting, but I know what I want: mere conversation."

Brynn suddenly realized that he was not bored... but lonely. That loneliness, which she understood for she had felt it before, was evident in his blue-gray eyes; it was strong on his face. She knew how it felt, though, to be in new surroundings without a friend with whom to talk. She reached for his hand, squeezing gently.

"How can you be lonely with an army of Blades at your beck and call?"

"That's just it. Every time I try to open a conversation, they think something is wrong. It's always 'Are you all right?' and 'What's wrong?' Oh, and the new one: 'Have you been threatened?'"

Brynn cracked a grin at that last one, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Threatened you? _Here?_ Have they even looked at where they are?"

"Apparently _not_," Martin muttered, sighing heavily. "I swear to Akatosh, Brynn, that if they say such things one more time, I will explode."

"And," Brynn finished, "you don't wish to offend them by asking them to stop, I suppose."

"Can you blame me? They expected me to arrive here behaving as the Emperor, but... compared to what they wish to see, I am terribly uncouth. Compared to what they expect, I can't even read!"

He exhaled heavily, rubbing his face, and Brynn squeezed his shoulder. They sat there on the steps in silence for a few minutes before Martin turned an imploring gaze toward Brynn.

"_Please_, Brynn," he pleaded. "Either help me locate something with which to occupy myself, or take me with you on your next adventure. These Blades... They're like overprotective mother hens! I doubt I can tolerate it much longer."

Brynn considered it for a moment. Well, she couldn't very well take him with her into the Oblivion gate infested world; if he were hurt or killed, Jauffre would never forgive her. The entire Empire would never forgive her. That was when she decided that perhaps she should instead locate something to keep him busy around the temple. Then she remembered the chest of her most beloved belongings from Morrowind; the chest was currently stored in a tiny side room in the sleeping quarters that she was using as a bedroom. Knowing how Martin was intrigued by antiquities, she gave him a smile.

"It isn't much," she said, "but I figure a bookworm and historian such as you would be interested in seeing some things I bought from home."

Martin tried not to show how much his interest was piqued by that. Souvenirs? From Morrowind? He had never seen anything of the sort, and he was curious. He nodded, sitting up a little straighter, though he glanced sideways at Brynn.

"Bookworm, maybe," he said, "but historian? I doubt it. But yes, of course I would be interested. I... would surely enjoy seeing such treasures."

Brynn laughed, shaking her head as she stood.

"Treasures? If they are that. They are more like the souvenirs of a sentimental Dunmer."

She offered her hand to Martin, and he pulled himself up, steadying himself on her shoulder. The moment was more than a little awkward; they had not known each other long enough to be so close. Brynn flushed and looked the other way, letting go.

"Follow me, then," she said, turning toward the great hall doors. "You will see the chest that has followed me all over Cyrodiil."

"_All_ over?"

"Well... not exactly. But near enough."

She then pushed open the doors cut through the great hall to the sleeping quarters, Martin close behind her. She started walking for the adjoining corridor, but Martin paused when he spotted Jauffre. He glanced over at Brynn.

"I think I will tell him where I will be, so he doesn't come hunting for me."

"Good idea," Brynn winked. Martin turned toward the Grandmaster and called out to him.

"Say, Jauffre!"

He had barely gotten that sentence out when Jauffre and a half-dozen Blades jumped to attention, eyes fixed on him as if waiting for him to crumple from an assassin's blade. Jauffre practically ran for Martin's side.

"Martin!" he exclaimed. "There you are! I was beginning to worry! Are you all right?"

At that moment, Brynn saw a side of him that she had not expected to see. There was a sudden, frustrated gleam in his eyes; he ground his teeth and growled under his breath; and his fists clenched so tightly that the knuckles popped; and the tone that came out of him was none too kind.

"For the love of Akatosh!" he exclaimed; Brynn thought that the Blades behind Jauffre jumped a little. "Would everyone _please_ calm down? I'm _fine_! I'm just going with Brynn to look at some things she brought from her home! And I'm _tired_ of people worrying over me every time I try to make conversation!"

Then he was gone, storming for the sleeping quarters. Everyone else stared after him; Jauffre was speechless, and Brynn didn't dare to apologize for Martin. She just chased after him, following him to her "room." She saw him anxiously rub his face before he sagged into a chair in the room, so she slowed her pace and quietly entered.

"I didn't mean that," he sighed softly when she entered. She squeezed his shoulder.

"I know. You're just stressed."

"Yet I shouldn't have exploded like that. It's... it's not the way I should act."

"Martin, Martin," Brynn sighed, crouching in front of him. "Please. You're not Emperor yet. You're still just a man. Even then, you'll still be a man—just a man with more responsibility. It's all right."

Martin gave her an unsure look, but she just smiled and patted his knee.

"Let's look at those trinkets, shall we?"

"Please," Martin sighed. "I... do need to relax."

Brynn turned away toward a large chest in the corner; the chest glowed with enchantments and had locks almost all the way across its face. Martin stared curiously at it.

"What have you _done_ with it?"

"Just a few enchantments," Brynn smiled. Martin raised a brow.

"_Just_ a few?"

"A few traps and a couple locking enchantments, plus the locks," she explained. "It had to survive the journey, after all."

"How far did it go?"

"Oh..." Brynn thought about it. "I live between the towns of Ald'ruhn and Balmora on Vvardenfell Island. So I put it on a cart and drove it to Balmora; from there, a silt strider to Vivec; from Vivec, a boat to Ebonheart; from Ebonheart, a boat to the mainland; from the mainland, another silt strider to the border; and at the border, it and I went on a series of coaches to the Imperial City."

"And it never once got lost?" Martin asked, amazed. Brynn shook her head.

"Never. Even after I was in the Imperial City and... in a little trouble. I paid extra to keep it stored in the depot in the city, which turned out to be beneficial because I didn't know I would end up involved in this."

"What about when you came after me?"

"I sent it ahead to Chorrol when I planned to go find Jauffre. When we came here, I had it sent to Bruma, then you remember when it came here. Now, shall we open it?"

Martin nodded, and Brynn crouched over the chest. She muttered a few words in the Dunmer tongue; the enchantments faded, and she tugged a set of keys from her armor. One by one, she undid the locks and set them aside, and when all was done, she finally pushed the lid back. Martin came and knelt beside her, peering inside.

At first, he didn't see anything. All he saw was some cloth, though he noticed after a moment that it too was shimmering with enchantments. Brynn smiled and reached in, lifting it out. It was a robe, Martin noticed—an elaborately decorated robe.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The Robe of the Hortator," she answered. "Just one of the symbols of my office, though I can't say that I know if I still hold the rank."

She reached inside and pulled out a belt, showing it to Martin.

"And the Belt of the Hortator," she said. "And I know I've the ring around here somewhere..."

As Martin took the robe and belt in his hands to study them, Brynn dug around in the chest until she surfaced again with a small wooden ring box that she opened. The ring resting inside on a scrap of velvet seemed quite plain until Brynn took it out and it glistened in the light. Martin saw that it, too, was enchanted, almost glowing. She offered it to him to look at, and Martin took it gently, cradling it in the palm of his hand.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, turning it over in his hand and admiring the glistening band. "But if you don't mind a stupid question, what in the world is a Hortator?"

Brynn laughed but didn't seem to mind at all.

"That's exactly what I asked when told I'd become it. It's basically a ceremonial war leader, someone that everyone can look to for leadership in a time of war without bickering over which Great House the leader belongs to. After all, if everyone's fighting over who to follow, nothing will ever get done and wars will get lost.

"Keep that in mind," she told Martin with an imploring gaze. "A true leader can rally any number of disagreeing forces to fight in the name of one common cause. True leadership is also learned. I doubt I am a true leader, because my role was given to me by destiny. I didn't have to actually lead an army, either, but you might. And, if you do, you want to be a person that inspires great loyalty, someone that people will follow even to death."

"I don't want to think about that," Martin sighed, giving her back her ring and looking away as she closed it in the little box. "I don't want to think that I could be responsible for the deaths of so many."

"Things like that happen in war," Brynn murmured. "That's why it's called war. It's not pleasant, and no one wants to think about it, but people die. The difference is in the leader. A good leader will do everything he can to protect as many of his troops as he can while destroying as many of the enemy as possible. A good leader won't treat his soldiers like cattle. A good leader will show concern for his men and walk among them to see the dead and comfort the wounded."

"I hope I never have to lead in a war," Martin said. Brynn looked at him and reached over, gently touching his hand.

"I hope you don't have to, either. But it's better to be prepared than to come to that situation and realize you've no idea what to do."

"Is that a hint for 'Martin, learn how to use a sword without dying'?" Martin asked with a somewhat teasing smile. Brynn laughed and nudged him in the shoulder.

"It would do you good to know how to swing a proper blade, rather than try to poke things to death with that little dagger you used to carry. Speaking of which..."

She rummaged in the chest until she pulled out a small dagger, its blade completely devoid of rust but chipped in a few places. She extended it to Martin, tightly clasping the hilt in such a way that he knew he was merely to look and not to touch.

"This was the very first blade I used when I got to Morrowind," she said. "I was so desperate for a way to defend myself that I stole it as soon as no one was looking. I don't think the owner ever realized it was missing."

"And you're telling _me_ to get a proper sword," Martin noted. Brynn grinned.

"Yes, because I didn't fight with this for long—only until I could afford a better one. Besides, it would look terrible for the Emperor to walk around with a tiny dagger rather than a massive, powerful sword."

She grinned at him as she put the dagger back into the chest and began poking around again. Martin asked her what she was looking for, but she didn't tell him until she pulled out another little box and opened it. Martin wasn't sure what to expect—jewels, maybe? Gold?—but he certainly wasn't expecting the pair of _rocks_, one red and one gray, that rested on the cloth inside the box.

"Do you know what these are?" Brynn asked him.

"...somehow I feel that 'They're rocks!' would be inappropriate," Martin said, somewhat hesitantly.

"Well, they _are_ rocks," Brynn agreed, "but they're sentimental rocks. The red one is from Red Mountain. I chipped it off on my way down after the battle with Dagoth Ur. When I emerged from his lair, the sun was shining and the sky was blue for the first time in days. You see, Red Mountain was a landscape of constant ash storms carrying Blight disease everywhere. And when he was dead... it stopped. I was exhausted and injured, but I was so amazed by the beauty of the sky that I dropped to my knees and wept. After that, I chipped this off of one of the many overhangs near me.

"This gray one," she went on, "comes from the stones near Ald'ruhn. More specifically, this is one of the rocks from my sister's grave."

"...your sister?" Martin asked, suddenly dumbfounded. "I—I didn't know you had—"

"Her name was Tam, and she was my twin," Brynn nodded, sighing and looking down at the ordinary gray rock. "We were found as orphan babes and were raised by a mage in the wilderness. When we were old enough, we moved to Ald'ruhn and lived under the silt strider platform. But... a Blight storm came in one day, and we didn't have enough shelter..."

She took a shuddering breath, clutching the rock in her hand.

"She got sick," she said simply. "It was obvious it was Blight disease, but I didn't have money to pay for a potion or a healer. I tried to take her to the temple in the city, but no one would help me move her for fear of catching her disease. On top of that, the temple wanted a _donation_ before they'd do anything. I was just a small child, but I was so _furious_ that the people claiming to worship the benevolent Tribunal were _charging_ to aid the sick that I stormed out and never went back to any temple. There weren't any Imperial missionaries nearby, but I knew they'd probably have done the same thing. 'Donate ten gold and we'll cure all your ailments!' Well, I didn't _have_ ten gold. I was so busy tending my sister that I hadn't been able to salvage things to sell or even steal anything."

"What happened?" Martin asked softly, even though he knew. Brynn squeezed the rock even tighter. Her hands were shaking.

"She died," she murmured. "She died in my arms. I couldn't bring her the comfort of medicine; water was all I could afford because it was free. I held her for days, trying to make her comfortable—or maybe I was trying to will her well; I don't remember. All I know was she got so, so thin... We didn't eat as it was, but the sickness just made her... waste away to nothing. And she was so young..."

Her voice was breaking, and Martin reached over and clasped his hand around her shoulder. Brynn didn't look up at him, instead staring down at the rock in her fist.

"It took me two days to dig her grave," she mumbled. "I wouldn't have even had a shroud for her if I hadn't gone begging for an old sheet. I made her headstone myself: a scrap of rock just big enough to carve words on.

"Some days," she went on, voice still breaking, "some days I wake up in the night and think that I should've died, too. I look at everything I've been a part of, and I see why I didn't, but I just miss her..."

"I know," Martin murmured, putting his arms around her. He did know; when he'd come back from his errant lifestyle, he'd found that the woman who had raised him, the woman he called Mother, had died, a prayer for her rebellious, Daedra-worshipping adopted son on her lips even at the end. And he'd never told her half the things he wanted to say.

Brynn didn't weep bitterly. She just bowed her head, closed her eyes, took deep breaths.

"Thank you," she murmured when she had mastered her emotions. "It's difficult to lose the only family you've ever known."

"It's difficult to lose family you've never met, too," Martin noted, and Brynn nodded in agreement.

"Anyway, yes, those are the stories of my special rocks," she said, putting the gray one into the box and quickly closing it, putting it back into the chest. "I must be the only grown woman to keep a rock collection."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Martin smiled.

Brynn looked up at him and managed a smile of her own. It wasn't until she looked him in the eyes and smiled that Martin realized how... calm he felt. He was completely at ease. None of the Blades were scurrying around, asking after his health and wellbeing. No one was pestering him to do things expected of an Emperor. It was just him and Brynn, sitting on the floor in her room, looking at the things she considered treasures. Maybe it was a simple activity by everyone else's standards, but Martin loved it. Just being beside her filled him with a quiet stillness that he hadn't felt in weeks.

"You know," he said when they had finished looking at her treasures and were getting to their feet, "I think I'm a very fortunate man."

"Really?" Brynn asked, securing the last of the locks on her chest. "You're the last surviving member of the Septim bloodline; you're under an insane amount of stress because you're going to be Emperor; daedra are running amok; the Blades are hounding you; you're stuck in a mountain fortress with no windows; and you call that fortunate?"

"Yes, I do," Martin replied, suddenly finding himself admiring her glossy black hair as she turned toward him, flicking the thick braid over her shoulder. "It's because I'm blessed indeed to have such a friend as you."

Brynn paused, looking at him in amazement before she smiled broadly.

"Well, I'm very glad we _are_ friends, Martin," she told him, and he felt his heart leap. "True friends are extremely rare to find, and I daresay you fit the description beautifully. I'll be disappointed indeed when you're Emperor and you'll be too busy with matters of state to deal with a lowly commoner like me."

"I'll never be too busy for you, Brynn," he murmured, gently taking her hand and squeezing it once before letting it go.

Even though he released her hand, he felt an odd warmth lingering in it, crawling up his arm. Brynn seemed to feel it, too, because she glanced at her hand and flexed her fingers. Suddenly, Martin had the odd thought that that touch hadn't been a simple, friendly contact. Was that strange? Surely he wasn't... was he?

Martin quickly wished her well and escaped from her room before his cheeks could turn an amazing shade of red. He scampered away, back toward the great hall, running into Jauffre, though not literally.

"Martin, are you all right?" the old Blade asked when he saw how perplexed his liege looked. Martin didn't snap at him that time, instead shrugging and nearly shaking his head.

"I'm not sure," he said. "I'm... confused."

He walked off again, leaving Jauffre just as confused. But when Brynn emerged and headed for the mess hall, Jauffre had to smile to himself. Maybe there was something there that hadn't been there before.


	11. The Scenic Route

**LAURELS: The Scenic Route**

_Setting: Between leaving Kvatch and taking Martin to Weynon Priory.  
Content: A slightly grumpy Martin. Nothing questionable. This is what happened when I decided to do Oblivion fics for my daily writing exercises._

The road to Weynon Priory seemed longer than it should have, Martin thought. For a woman who seemed so well acquainted with destiny, Brynn Laurel didn't seem that keen on getting him there. On the other hand, perhaps she was allowing him time to come to terms with the life-changing news she'd given him in Kvatch. Martin was just ready for a real night's sleep.

"If this is your idea of a scenic route, I'm not sure I like it," he noted grumpily one morning as he crawled out of a tent that had formerly belonged to a bandit. Of course, the bandit was dead and had been dragged off into the underbrush, but Martin didn't like sleeping in a tent that wasn't his.

"I know you don't," Brynn sighed wearily as she prepared breakfast. Martin wondered for a split second if she had gotten any sleep at all last night. "But this is our road. I suggest you tolerate it, _sire_."

Martin fumed silently. He still didn't fully believe that this wasn't simply a terrible dream, and hearing her call him "sire" only made it worse. Then again, she only did it when she was upset—or trying to upset him. That part was definitely working.

They got started soon enough, setting off across the yellow hills of the Gold Coast. Chorrol was, what, a four day trip from Kvatch? They could have been there by now if Brynn hadn't decided on the "scenic route." Martin knew his mood was going to be sour all day, and no number of prayers to the Nine would make it better. Besides, why were they going _southwest_? Chorrol and the priory were north of Kvatch! Instead, they'd meandered to Skingrad because Brynn had something to do there, and now they were going back _past_ Kvatch, toward Anvil. Martin didn't understand the necessity of meandering all over Cyrodiil when the road to Chorrol was _right there_ and all they had to do was get on it and walk.

They made it to Anvil by sundown, though Martin's mood still hadn't improved. Brynn's feet were exhausted, so they stopped atop a hill while she rested. Martin was wary, tense. They had a tendency to be attacked by wildlife at dusk, and he was so sick of fighting for his life. He'd been doing that since the attack.

But while Brynn rested, he found himself gazing west, taking note of the sunset. Anvil was spread out below him, with the docks and the sea beyond. Gulls sailed through the air, calling out with their shrill cries. Slowly, the sun sank in the sky, almost wearily as it smeared orange and pink across the sky, scattering gold across the blue waters. Martin found himself sinking down onto the log Brynn was sitting on as he watched the sunset until his eyes watered. By the Nine, it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen in his life.

As the flaming sky died down to the dusty hues of dusk, Martin blinked. Purple and green spots danced before his eyes, and he finally got them to clear, turning toward Brynn. She was watching him, smiling faintly. That was when he understood what the "scenic route" was about: making the uptight, worried priest from Kvatch see the simple beauties that existed in spite of grand destinies and weak barriers between Nirn and Oblivion. He felt like an idiot for not seeing it before, especially not when Brynn Laurel, the Nerevarine and the most radiant Dunmer woman he'd ever seen, was trying so hard to show it to him. He abruptly remembered the trip to Skingrad, the long walk through the hills and into the vineyards under a clear blue sky. She'd been trying for days to make him see.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asked him, her voice soft and lilting. Martin suddenly found his gaze fixed on hers; her ruby eyes seemed to gleam purple in the haze of evening.

"...yes, very," he murmured, though he wasn't sure if he meant the sunset or her eyes.

She smiled softly and got to her feet, heading down the hill for the road into Anvil. Martin followed her, trying to see the city as she did. He could feel the cool ocean breeze, taste the salt in the air. He watched as Brynn walked toward the gate, stooping to gently pluck the leaves off an aloe plant by the gate, tucking them into a pouch on her belt before walking on. The guard opened the gate for them, and Martin slipped in after her.

The streetlights flickered warmly as they entered the city square. To his left, Martin saw the most fascinating statue of a mermaid and started wandering over to it. Brynn was behind him as he went to explore, but he soon noticed that she wasn't simply following him to the statue. The house right next door was her destination, and she fished a key out of her belt as she went to a side gate and pushed it open, heading up the walk to the door. Martin quickly followed her, shutting the gate behind himself as Brynn unlocked the front door.

"Is this your home?" he asked, looking at the tightly closed buds of the morning glories crawling up the stone walls. Brynn looked at him and smiled as she opened the door for him.

"It is," she replied, immediately heading to light the candles and lamps. Warm light filled the front room after she stooped to build a fire, and Martin couldn't help but notice the coziness of the house.

"It's beautiful," he remarked, looking around. He slowly approached a bookshelf there in the sitting room and marveled at Brynn's collection. Brynn looked up at him and smiled, though he didn't notice as he pulled a copy of the Divines' commandments from the shelf, flipping through it even though he knew it by heart.

"The bedroom's upstairs," she said, getting to her feet once the fire was roaring. "Since there's only one, you may have it. You haven't slept well in days, so I think it's only fair."

"No, this is your house," Martin protested, almost losing his train of thought. Gods, she was so gorgeous in the firelight, even though he had no right to think so and that thought was _completely_ inappropriate. "I don't think—"

Brynn raised a hand to silence him.

"I wasn't asking you if you wanted it," she said. "The room is yours. In fact, treat this house as if you own it. Don't be afraid to make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," he managed to stammer, putting the book back on its shelf without knocking them all down. "I will."

Brynn gave him a smile and headed upstairs to change out of her armor. When she came back in a plain green robe, her hair long and brushed out, and ventured into the kitchen to make something for dinner, Martin couldn't help but watch her before he glanced heavenward. Surely the Nine had had no real reason for sending such a remarkable woman to rescue him, Nerevarine or no. But he knew better than anyone: the gods almost _always_ had a reason for the simplest of things.


End file.
